Homeostasis
by NaiveEve
Summary: Smut. House is surprised with himself when he becomes intrigued by a mysterious young woman. Is she flirting with him? Usually he has such strict self control in these matters. Usually… House&OFC.
1. I Kitten

House is surprised with himself when he becomes intrigued by a mysterious young woman. Is she flirting with him? Usually he has such strict self control in these matters. Usually…

I am a student and therefore I am bored and frustrated… writing smut is my release. This is one for the girls. It's just a piece of fluff – mostly smut, some romance… all good fun. The further it goes on, the smuttier it gets – you have been warned. I'll put a few (relatively clean) chapters up to start with, and you guys can decide if you want to read more.

There are references to events from various episodes in the first and second season, although they are not in the correct order, and some details may have been altered. I have made them fit into my story. Also, I made House about 5 years younger, just so the two main characters are a little closer in age (not because I want to change him – I like him just the way he is).

Homeostasis

**Homeostasis**, _def:_ The maintenance of a constant, ideal internal environment, esp. in living organisms; state of internal balance or stability. Equilibrium.

I - Kitten

He first meets her in an elevator. It is seven o'clock on a Friday night. There is a violent storm outside the hospital. The electricity cuts out. The generators kick in, but the elevators are periphery in terms of importance. He knows the generators do not provide enough energy to run the lifts – silly little things like life support machines take precedence. They are trapped inside the mirrored cube. House, Wilson, the redhead. _Could be stuck in here for hours_, he thinks.

'I told you, you should never take a lift in the middle of a bad storm,' Wilson says.

'Oh yeah, maybe we should have taken the stairs,' he says sarcastically, raising his cane.

They lower themselves to the floor, sitting, waiting. He watches her in the mirrored wall. He thinks, _at least I have something to look at_. Beside her she has a cardboard box filled with documents. She is reading something from the box. She is stunning, other-worldly. Young – maybe twenty-five, he guesses. Golden red hair glowing under the dim lights. Her skin is like porcelain, almost blue-white with a pink flush. She has a smattering of light freckles across her face, which is soft and classically beautiful. Large dark eyes, long lashes, perfect little upturned ski slope nose, full rose coloured lips. She is like a doll. Small, petite, fragile, with a slight build like a dancer - curves in all the right places. She is wearing faded hipster jeans, a black v-neck sweater and black converse hi-tops.

'New here?' Wilson's voice interrupts the silence.

She smiles, looking up from her document.

'Lee Emerson,' she offers. She has an Australian accent.

'Dr James Wilson,' replies Wilson, smiling his boyish smile.

_Here we go again_, House thinks, rolling his eyes.

'Let the flirting begin!' he says, under his breath. 'He's married,' he says loudly, pointing at Wilson.

'And this is Dr….' Wilson starts.

'Greg House,' House interrupts, sounding bored, staring at the ceiling.

'You Australian?' Wilson asks.

'Yep, you picked it,' she replies, smiling, 'you have no idea how many Americans think I'm British!'

'We work with an Australian Doctor, don't we Doctor House? Doctor Chase,' Wilson says.

She smiles again. House rolls his eyes again. He continues his discrete inspection of her in the mirror. He thinks she must have been hired as a new receptionist. He thinks she doesn't seem like a doctor, but why all the papers? Maybe she is someone's assistant? The lights brighten. The elevator jolts and starts moving.

'Oh, that wasn't as painful as I thought it would be. I almost lost it at the thought of being confined in a small space with you for several hours,' Wilson says to House.

She organises her documents in preparation for exiting the lift. The bell sounds and the doors open to the car park.

'I'm getting out of this place before it tries to trap me again!' House says as he exits the lift, Wilson at his side.

She follows. He hears her behind him. The two men stop at Wilson's car. House watches as the redhead stops at a black 1960's model Jaguar, unlocking it.

'Sexy,' he says loudly as he watches her lean into the car, throwing the cardboard box onto the back seat.

She turns, looks at him.

'The car,' he adds, feigning innocence.

She smiles and he is impressed that she can take a joke.

'Bet she purrs like a kitten,' he says quietly to Wilson.

'The car?' Wilson asks disapprovingly.

'Yeah, that too,' House replies, bouncing his eyebrows.

'Could she be Mrs Wilson number three?' he says, teasingly, 'she's a cute one. Kylie Minogue's body – wow that ass, crossed with Lindsay Lohan – that girl next door appeal, the red hair and freckles…. but there's definitely a hint of Angelina Jolie, I thinks it's the lips, and she seems like a bit of a bad girl. What do you think Jimmy?'

'I think you watch too much MTV. You really need to get yourself a hobby.'


	2. II Memento

II – Memento

House and Wilson move down the line in the cafeteria, sliding their trays along the counter. House notices that the smell of the soup of the day is replaced by the heady, yet pleasant scent of a woman's perfume in his nostrils. He glances down at his right shoulder and finds himself staring into a pair of dark green eyes. It takes him a few seconds to register the face. He realises that the eyes belong to the redhead from the lift. She wears her hair out – loose golden red waves frame her face. She gives him a sexy smile and leans past him to reach for a bottle of water, brushing against his shoulder ever so slightly. Wilson's voice has become peripheral as House stares at the woman, an expression of passive bewilderment on his face.

'House?' Wilson's voice cuts through.

He looks at Wilson.

'I said I suppose you _accidentally_ left your wallet in your office again?'

House rolls his eyes, 'Oh Jimmy, you know me so well.'

They are seated. House keeps his eye on the redhead as he pours dressing over his salad. He prods at the limp lettuce with the plastic fork and throws glances towards her whenever Wilson isn't looking. She sits with a straight back and her legs crossed at her ankles, resting her feet against the leg of the chair. She takes small bites of a sandwich as she casually flips through a magazine. He turns his attention back to his overcooked steak.

'Wow,' Wilson exclaims.

House looks up to see Wilson's head cocked at an angle. He follows Wilson's gaze to find that he has only just discovered the redhead. He rolls his eyes.

'Is that the woman from the lift?' Wilson asks.

'Ah…dunno,' House says flippantly.

'She is _gorgeous_,' Wilson says, staring.

'Shut your mouth, you'll attract flies.'

Later, he backs out of a clinic room without looking. He turns the corner abruptly, colliding rather violently with someone. The person, who is considerably smaller than he, has had their face squashed against his chest momentarily and the impact has caused his files to scatter over the floor. Even though it was likely his fault, his first instinct is one of arrogance, and just as he is preparing to abuse the object of his obstruction, he recognizes the glossy golden red hair at the level of his chest. She looks up at him. Sultry eyes, luminous pale skin and heady perfume. Yes, it is _the redhead _alright. Suddenly he finds himself lost for witty, biting remarks.

'Oh my god, I'm sorry,' she says in a soft husky voice, as she kneels at his feet and attempts to gather his papers.

He stands, dumbstruck for a few seconds before deciding that, as arduous as the task may be, he should probably get down there and help her. Awkwardly, he kneels and sweeps his large hands over the remaining papers, gathering them back, watching her out of the corner of his eye. She is wearing a black pencil skirt with a long split, and as she reaches for the remaining pieces of paper that have strayed further away, her shirt hitches slightly, exposing the lace top of her stay-up stockings and her milky white thigh. He feels a throb between his thighs and glances away quickly, getting to his feet. She joins him.

'Here,' she says, handing him the papers, 'sorry, they're all out of order now.'

She offers him a slight smile. His facial expression is altered ever so slightly, reciprocating her gesture with a very faint smile. His smile is so short in duration that it is more like a twitch. Her sly grin widens and her eyes search his for a moment, as if she is planning to speak. She doesn't speak, she turns on her heal and continues on her way. He turns his head to watch her, his eyes fixed on her ass as she sashays around the corner, and he thinks for a second, _was she flirting with me?_ He notices that he feels something whenever he sees her. He feels shy and interested – like a school boy. He cannot understand this. He sees attractive women day in and day out, he even works with one, but this woman is different. Whenever he comes across an attractive woman, he takes full advantage of the situation – usually has a good subtle perve, but he has never felt like this – sort of nervous.

Later that night when he is removing his clothes to shower, he discovers a red lipstick stain in the centre of his button-down shirt. The smudge had transferred when her face had pressed against his chest. He touches it with his finger. It is waxy and soft. He smells it – a scent reminiscent of the rose oil his grandmother wore. He stares at the smudge for a moment. This waxy substance had been almost a part of her – it was intimately close to her – on her lips, one of the most intimate of places, and now it is with him, on his shirt. He thinks this is odd. It is almost like a memento. He stops his train of thought, reprimanding himself, feeling pathetic. _Am I that sad and lonely that a fucking smudge of lipstick on my shirt from some random woman has me pining?_ he asks himself. He discards the shirt in the wash basket and stands under the soothing, hot hard flow of the shower, desperately trying to suppress black thoughts.


	3. III Rebel

III – Rebel

She sees him in the hall, surrounded by three other doctors. She stays at a distance and sits on a hard wooden bench in the waiting area, a decorative garden behind glass walls at her back. She watches through the glass. He is tall, impossibly so, and lean. One hundred and eighty-nine centre meters, she guesses. She is one hundred and sixty-five. He never wears a white lab-coat like the other doctors do, and never has an ID badge swinging from his lapel. Hers is clamped to the waistline of her skirt, at her hip. He wears jeans and sneakers and shirts open at the collar. Other doctors wear slacks and ties and leather shoes. He is a rebel. She has only seen his face once or twice, and she would like to see it again – up close. She has realized that she looks forward to chance encounters with him, in the cafeteria, in the lift, at the vending machine, in the car park. Sometimes they make eye-contact. She is thankful for these small coincidences and finds herself cataloguing them. She will file this one away too.

He has raised his voice, yelling, pointing at the other doctors. They stand, mouths agape, bewildered. He is sharp, abrasive, frank. This is obvious to her, even with the little knowledge she has about him. They are frightening qualities and yet she is not frightened, she is intrigued. There is a certain gentle quality about him. His face is pleasant, kind even. This is uncanny because she has asked about him, casually dropping his name to members of staff and she has heard awful things. She doesn't believe them. She remembers he has blue eyes: distinctive eyes. His face is long, and there is a thinness about it – consistent with his body. He has a heavy brow and his mouth rests with a certain sadness. He is unkempt, but she finds it excruciatingly appealing. She has never seen him with a clean-shaven jaw - always with a five o'clock shadow or three days worth of stubble and his shirts are always creased, as if he has slept in them. He is substantially older than her, early forties she guesses. His hair is a graying dark brown – messy, short, somewhat curly. She thinks he is beautiful, and for that, any one of her girlfriends would call her mad.

She knows she is nursing a crush. She has done this often in her life – she develops crushes on random, peculiar men. When she was eighteen she had a crush on the ferryboat driver she saw on her early morning trips to university. He was rough: non-descript and she couldn't understand her attraction to him. But still, her heart would race slightly whenever he smiled at her on those dark, cold mornings. She hates the word _crush_. In the thesaurus it is listed with words such as: squash, defeat, devastate, suppress. She doesn't understand this _crush_ but she lets it occupy her mind because she enjoys it. He leans heavily on his walking-cane. She is overwhelmed with curiosity about this. She wants to know what has happened to his leg.

She gets chatting to his friend, Doctor Wilson one day in the cafeteria. They talk casually. He asks her how she is settling in and he flirts brazenly. She is waiting for the opportunity to swing the conversation to talk about House. Finally he makes a reference to the fact that they met in an elevator.

She says, 'Yes, with that other doctor.'

'Doctor House?' Wilson clarifies.

'Yeah…' she says nonchalantly, as if the mere mention of the word House doesn't cause her to jolt slightly.

'Don't mind him, he's sort of like the village idiot of this hospital.'

She is disappointed to hear this. She thinks these are cruel words coming from a friend. This shows on her face.

'Don't get me wrong, he's a fantastic doctor - one of the best, that's the only reason Cuddy hasn't fired him. He's just a little…unconventional, controversial.'

She likes what she is hearing now. She likes unconventional.

'He walks with a cane right?'

'Yeah.'

'What happened to his leg?'

'He had an infarction – like a blood clot, in his thigh. They didn't catch it in time and he almost lost the leg.'

She raises her eyebrows. 'So it's permanent?'

He nods. 'He's on pain medication for the rest of his life.'

She furrows her brow, feels bad for him.

The conversation with Wilson drones on and then dissolves and he says 'let me know if you need anything,' smiling charmingly as he leaves.

In bed that night she cannot sleep. The windows are shut and the air in the room is stale and hot. She thinks of home and of her job at the hospital. Her thoughts turn to him. She wonders if he is married. She has never thought to look for a ring. Whenever there is a chance encounter she is dumbstruck – grinning like a Cheshire cat. She makes a note to look next time. She wonders whether there is any woman in his life and if there is, how would he make love to her? Would he be gentle, would he be rough, selfish, generous, indulgent… She hardly realizes when her hand slips behind the material of her underpants. She closes her eyes. She sees his crisp blue eyes and sad mouth. She comes.


	4. IV Film

IV - Film

The redhead seems to be everywhere he goes. The cafeteria, the courtyard, the water fountain, the vending machine, the elevator. She had sashayed past the glass walls of his office on numerous occasions, when he was alone, watching _General Hospital_ or playing with his yoyo, and when he was in the middle of a differential diagnosis with the rest of the team. Each time he sees her she looks incredible - luminous. Each time they make eye contact she gives him the same sly, sexy smile. Hell, she'd even started turning up in his dreams. He could never remember the exact content of the dreams but he always remembered flashes of red hair and pale skin, and he always awoke with a racing heart, and often times, an erection. He is intrigued by her, and the fact that she has found her way into his personal subconscious experience compounds this sense of intrigue.

_Would you sleep with her?_ he asks himself, sitting in his office alone. _No. Maybe… it depends. Yes._ He sighs and scratches the underside of his chin. Like a reel of film behind his eyes, his mind starts playing a dirty self-invented movie - his pants are at his ankles, her head is bobbing in his lap – golden red hair. He feels himself getting hard. He squeezes his damaged thigh until there are tears in his eyes. It always works – his erection goes down. He can think of better ways to get rid of it.

At home, according to his usual routine, he sits alone in the dark on his austere leather couch still wearing his clothes from work, turning a glass of Scotch in his hands. He is remembering snap shots of his last dream – a naked redhead writhing beneath him, breasts, thighs, sighs. He thinks about all of the sex he has had in his life. Despite the way he talks, despite the show, there have only ever been six women in his life. He was a loser in high school – a nerd, a reject, always correcting the teacher, always saying the wrong things to the kids in the cafeteria and spending too much time in the local library or playing the piano. When he was sixteen, he had a "girlfriend" for two weeks. She was a new girl at school, and eventually she realized he was a loser and found her way. She didn't count - he barely got to second base with her. He remembers making out with her behind the garden shed in his backyard. They kissed until his jaw ached and every time he tried to slide his hand up her skirt, she smacked it away. He lost his virginity at eighteen, in his first year at college, 1982. He didn't remember much, besides the fact that she was blonde, and her sorority sisters were in the room listening and giggling, and probably watching while they fucked. He didn't care he just had to get it done. He was on top, pants at his knees and it was hard and fast and over in minutes. He spoke to her a few times after, and then never again.

Then there was the girl in his ancient Middle Eastern history class. That one lasted a little longer. She had brown skin and hair and they smoked pot together and had philosophical conversations. They fucked in her car and on the football field at night, amongst other places. She was the first to go down on him. She wasn't nearly gentle enough, and her teeth often got in the way – but nevertheless, he was grateful. There was another blonde – Sarah. She was the only woman he had scored by throwing out the 'I'm a doctor' card. He hated the cliché and vowed never to use it but he was desperate for female flesh and it was his first year as a resident doctor. That one was semi-serious. He even met her parents, and they had sex in the bed she had slept in as a child. Her father hated him. In fact, neither of the parents approved but that only made him more determined to stick around…until she started gazing longingly at diamond rings in shop windows and talking about her sister's new baby.

There was an English girl, he couldn't remember her name. She was a real bitch. She thought she could walk all over him but it was only because he let her. He got off on it. They were constantly arguing but the make-up sex was great. All they ever did was fuck and scream at one another. They never really even broke up, she just left one day, went back to England he suspects. Next was Stacy, and he was hit hard. She was brash in a sophisticated way and he couldn't believe she wanted him. He stuffed it up immediately, but she gave him a second chance and then he knew love. Of course, he stuffed it up again when he had the infarction, and then stuffed it up again when he slept with her while she was married to someone else and then sent her away.

He gets drunk enough to order a prostitute. He has only done this once before, and it was a great disappointment. Still, he calls the same number that he called when Stacy left - asks for a redhead. She is not a real redhead – that is obvious. Her skin is not fair, she does not have a smattering of freckles. She wears too much make-up, she smells sickly sweet.

'What do you want me to do?' she asks in her practiced sleazy voice.

'Go down on me, and don't look at me when you're doing it.'

His brow furrows as she gets on her knees and starts running her hands over his thighs and fondling his crotch.

'Careful!' he spits at her, as her hand moves carelessly over his damaged thigh.

She glances at him, confused, before she starts fiddling with his belt. He tilts his head back. He lets the chemically induced drowsiness take him. His hands move to his face before they clamp around his head like a vice, trying to stem the throbbing. She says something about having trouble getting him hard and he pulls his head forward to see her climbing onto his lap. He pushes her off of him quite forcefully and gets to his feet. After paying her generously, he sends her on her way and slumps back into his chair. Knocking back two extra Vicodin, he passes out.


	5. V Drugs

V – Drugs

She has a new patient. The woman has recently been admitted following a car accident. She opens the file, peruses it. She feels a jolt when she sees his name: _Attending Doctor: Gregory House_. She reads his name again, taking in the curls and loops of the letters, before reading the more relevant parts of the file. There is an extensive list of medications, only two of which she knows. She smiles to herself. She will have to discuss this case with the attending doctor.

'House, there is a beautiful woman in your office, she's asking for you,' Chase says, finding House with Cameron, visiting a patient in one of the private rooms.

'You look surprised,' House replies as he leaves the room with both Chase and Cameron in tow.

As he approaches his office, he sees a woman's black stiletto shoes, but the view of the rest of her body is blocked by a bookcase. He grabs the door handle, and turns to Chase and Cameron before entering.

'Mail order bride. I think she's Russian. Paid a pretty penny for her too! Hope she speaks English!' he says, bouncing his eyebrows in his usual comical way.

They enter the room and the woman turns to face them. It is the redhead. Up close, she is even more beautiful then he remembers. She is wearing a tight grey pencil skirt with a pink silk blouse, buttoned down. Her hair rests at her shoulders – the intense red colour he remembers from his dream. She is wearing red lipstick and resembles a 1940's film siren, a femme fatale.

'Doctor House,' she says, smiling, 'we met a couple of weeks ago in the lift remember? I'm Doctor Lee Emerson.'

_Doctor?_ he thinks. He had been so sure she that she wasn't a doctor.

'Yep, I remember,' he replies, 'you were wearing hipster jeans. I _love_ hipster jeans.'

He pulls one of his trademark faces.

She raises her eyebrows and grins slightly. Cameron flashes House a look of disgust.

'You're Australian!' Chase says.

'Yeah,' she replies.

'Me too,' he says before realising that she could tell this from his accent.

'Obviously,' he adds, embarrassed.

'I'm from Melbourne. Where are you from?' he asks.

'Queensland,' she says.

She leans closer to him. He is taken aback.

'None of the Americans have ever heard of Queensland,' she says with a smile.

He is overwhelmed. He giggles and is lost for words.

Cameron holds out her hand, 'I'm Doctor Cameron.'

Lee gives her a warm smile saying 'nice to meet you,' as they shake hands.

'I'm Doctor Chase,' Chase says following suite, eagerly shaking Lee's hand.

'Well, now that we have had a _lovely _getting to know you session, lets get down to business. You two don't need to be here,' House says gesturing for Chase and Cameron to leave.

They comply and he turns to Lee Emerson.

'You wanted to see me?' he says.

Without waiting for an offer, she sits in the chair opposite his desk.

'I'm a clinical psychologist…' she starts.

_Ah, clinical psychologist,_ he thinks. _That makes more sense._

'Ah, so not a _real_ doctor?' he says.

She smiles slightly, furrowing her brow. _This is going to be a challenge_, she thinks.

'Not a _medical_ doctor, no,' she says.

'I have been assigned a new case,' she continues, 'a patient of yours, Maria Reynolds, 37 year old white female…'

'I don't do names…diagnosis?'

'Car accident, head injuries, trauma and some evidence of dissociation…'

'Got it,' House says.

'Well, the patient is taking numerous meds so I need you to fill me in on all the possible side effects so I can work out which symptoms are likely to be induced by the drugs and which are clinically relevant.'

She pauses and they regard one another for a moment. She gives him a sexy smile.

'Please,' she adds.

He reaches the conclusion that she is most definitely flirting with him. On some level - he likes it. A smile starts in the corner of his mouth.

'File,' he says, holding his hand out.

She hands the manila folder to him and he flips through it casually.

'Well, I'm assuming you know about the antidepressants and the sedatives,' he says eyeing her.

'Yep.'

'Then you've got Monopril, that's a BP med, side effects include the usual suspects…dry mouth, thirst, etcetera etcetera, boring…'

She smiles.

'Of course she's also on Nortriptyline, which can cause postural hypertension… so that's great, we've got meds working against each other…who the hell prescribed these?'

He flips to the front of the file, 'Jackson… well it seems like _Jackson_ is a Jack_ass_…'

'Well, seeing as there are so many meds and there is a bit of a mix up, maybe we should make another time to meet and discuss this?' she says suggestively, smiling.

He pauses, watching her, smiling without even realising.

'How bout I give you this to borrow in the meantime,' he says, turning in his chair and reaching for a large book on the low shelf behind him.

He drops the heavy book on the table and opens it.

'It outlines most of the major side effects of the different classes of drugs…'

He is distracted as she stands and moves beside him, close but not too close. She is feeling bold. She is never usually this forward with men, but she feels like she must take full advantage of this opportunity. She peers over his shoulder at the book and he peers down her blouse.

'You're a clinical psychologist?' he asks.

'Yeah,' she says.

'You do therapy…sitting on the couch, talking about feelings and stuff?' he asks.

'Yeah,' she says.

'Wow,' he says, making it obvious that he is leering at her breasts, 'your patients must get some major transference issues… many of them male?'

'About half and half,' she says casually, letting him know that she realises what he is implying and is handling it rather well.

'How on earth _do_ they concentrate?'

She decides to take it as a complement, guessing that it's the best he can do. She smiles, and leans across him, taking a pen from his desk and writing her work phone number on a pad of paper she finds. He is uncomfortable with her. She makes him feel things. He feels attracted, defenceless, insulted. He decides he must habituate to her, so he doesn't attempt to move out of her way. He forces himself to relax in his chair as he takes in the sent of her perfume, the curve of her back, the way the silk clings to her skin.

'Call me when you're ready to discuss the meds,' she says.

She closes the book and takes it from his desk. She moves away from him, towards the door, saying 'thanks,' as she leaves the room without turning back.

Outside his door, walking away down the hall, she realises she is trembling. She can hear her heart beating in her ears. Her body tingles as it calms itself. She smiles. Him – so real and intense, her – so uncharacteristically audacious. An adrenaline rush. She had forgotten to look for a wedding band.


	6. VI Suicide

VI - Suicide

Wednesday. House has happily reached the end of his clinic duties for the day. He attempts to exit the consulting room and almost collides with the receptionist.

'Doctor House, you have one last patient before you're done!' she says.

'Ah, but its twelve o'clock now,' he says, pointing to the clock in the room.

'I know you moved the hands. You got fifteen minutes,' she holds her watch up for him to see.

'Besides, she asked for you,' she adds.

'Who?' he asks.

She gestures to the waiting bench. It is full. There are anxious mothers, screaming children and plenty of elderly people, none of which he recognises. His eyes continue to scan the crowd until, in the middle of the bench, he notices Lee. She is holding a towel around her left wrist and is watching a mother try and coax her child away from the fish bowl on the reception desk.

'Lee Emerson,' the receptionist calls out.

Lee looks up to see House.

'Doctor House will see you now.'

Lee stands and begins to make her way towards him. An old woman who was sitting next to her stands and yells, 'No, I was next!'

'Hey, this is an emergency,' House says sarcastically, striding closer to Lee, 'she's much prettier then you,' he adds, a matter of fact expression on his face.

The woman is outraged, 'Uh! How dare you!'

House and Lee move towards the room. She is walking slowly. She looks pale, paler then usual. The colour has gone from her cheeks.

'I can't see,' she says faintly.

She leans on him, and he does his best to support her. He gestures for the receptionist to assist him in escorting her to the room. They help her onto the examining table. The receptionist places Lee's file on the bench and exits, closing the door behind her. Lee is lying down. She has closed her eyes.

'Hey good show out there! I think we really fooled her…Emerson. Emerson!'

She opens her eyes.

'What happened?' he asks, moving closer to her, a serious tone to his voice.

'I... I cut myself on…a louver in my office,' she says slowly, trying to sit up.

'No, don't try to sit up, just lay there for a while.'

She complies. He unwraps the blood soaked towel and lifts her wrist gently to inspect the wound. It isn't too bad, a little deep. He carefully separates the sides of the gash. She is going to need stiches. She begins to sit up again.

'Just lay still,' he repeats.

'No, it's ok, I'm ok now,' she says.

He inspects her face. The colour has returned.

'So how'd you do it?' he asks.

'Oh it was so stupid, I was leaning over my desk to open the damn louvers, and I was reaching down to get the one on the end and I just slipped and… I came down on it pretty hard.'

'Yeah I can see that,' he says, 'I can see the slit is just the shape of one of those panes. Pretty cool actually.'

'Yeah, cool,' she rolls her eyes.

'Ah the perks of working in a hospital, free medical insurance, and… you can drop by the clinic during your lunch break to get a couple of stiches,' he says.

'Perks! Yeah right, I had to sit there for almost 30 minutes waiting to see your good self,' she looks down at her wrist, 'so it's that bad huh, I'm gonna need stiches?'

'Nah, not that bad, you only need two.'

'Wow, that's gonna look great. A therapist with a bandaged wrist!'

He smiles, 'you can pretend you've tried it and tell them it's really _not all that_.'

She smiles again. He moves over to the side of the room and takes a pair of rubber gloves from the dispenser on the wall. He opens some draws and takes out a syringe, some anaesthetic, some wipes and antibacterial liquid and the implements for suturing and places them all on a metal tray. He brings the tray over and places it on the table next to her. She watches as he puts the gloves on his hands one by one. No wedding band. He has beautiful hands. Strong but soft. She has always admired men's hands – always found them attractive. They are so distinctively masculine – so different from a woman's, larger, more geometrically shaped. He takes one of the wipes, folds it, and holds it up to the bottle, tipping it to soak the cloth in the liquid. He lifts her wrist gently and begins to swab the wound. She can feel the warmth of his fingertips through the artificial rubber of the gloves. She watches him intently.

'I'm going to give you a local anaesthetic, you're not allergic to anything are you?' he asks, placing the wipe on the tray and heading over to her file.

'Not that I know of,' she replies.

He peruses the file quickly before realising it is not her medical file. It is her employee record file. He thinks the nurse must have collected the file knowing that it contains a small section of basic medical information – such as notifications of any allergies. He says nothing. He returns to the table. He opens the disposable tube containing the anaesthetic and attaches it to the syringe. He removes the cap and gently takes hold of her wrist again. His eyes meet with hers as he injects the anaesthetic. She feels the cold fluid coursing under her skin. It burns and stings and yet she doesn't so much as flinch. He waits a few minutes – disposing of the wipes and the syringe. He returns to her side and taps her wrist.

'Can you feel that?' he asks.

'No,' she shakes her head.

He proceeds with the stitches. She watches his face – close to hers. He has the clearest, bluest eyes she has ever seen and they are intently focused as he works. She is not afraid to watch the implement moving, to watch him close the wound – stitch her skin together like two pieces of fabric. He glances at her, follows her gaze, makes a face.

'What?' she asks softly.

'Most people prefer not to watch,' he says, intrigued.

He finishes. He has mended her. The two stitches are perfect. He wipes the area again and starts to bandage her wrist. He is so gentle with her – she can't believe the things she has heard about him.

'There, all done,' he says, 'it wasn't that bad now, was it?'

She smiles timidly, 'no.'

'Want a lollipop?' he jokes.

He is still holding her wrist. She is still staring at him. His eyes meet hers. She smiles again. They hold each other's gaze. A slight grin is beginning in the corner of his mouth.

'You're cold,' he says suddenly, 'how are you feeling?'

'I still feel a little weak.'

'So it happened over an hour ago now?' he asks.

'Umm… yeah about that,' she says.

He removes the gloves and discards them on the tray.

'I'm just going to listen to your heart,' he says, putting his stethoscope in is ears.

She laughs inside. The comment is innocuous – meaningless, but it is amusing to ponder the fact that it is also profound, given the circumstances.

'Uh….' he mumbles, wondering how to go about the situation.

'Oh,' she says, unbuttoning two buttons on her blouse and pulling it to the side. He can see her bra strap and the fabric resting at the curve of her breast. It is aqua blue satin. He makes a face and proceeds to place the stethoscope on her chest. She feels the cold metal on her breast and his warm breath on her neck. He listens for a second before flashing her a puzzled expression.

'What?' she asks.

'Your heart is beating really fast,' he replies.

'That might have something to do with the fact that you have your hand down my blouse, doctor!' she replies, blushing slightly.

He regards her, raising his eyebrows. _Interesting_, he thinks as his own heart speeds a little.

'You'll be fine,' he says, taking the stethoscope out and resting it around his neck.

'But maybe you should think about going home and resting for the remainder of the afternoon. You lost a bit of blood. You should get some fluids into you too.'

'No,' she says, shaking her head, 'too much work.'

'Ah, come on, doctor's orders! I can write you a note to give to principal Cuddy. It's not every day you're handed a get out of jail free card.'

She smiles, 'ok.'

She slides off the table, 'thank you,' she says, eyeing him.

'Yeah,' he replies, nodding once, 'you'll have to get them out in about two weeks time.'

They both stand near the door, silent, still.

'Hey, we still haven't discussed the meds yet,' she says.

'Ah yeah, I'll get onto that.'

'Well, just give me a call when you're ready.'

He nods again and opens the door for her just as Wilson walks by.

Lee smiles at Wilson, 'hi.'

'Hi,' Wilson replies as she walks away down the hall. The two men stand, watching her.

'Wow, she really is beautiful,' Wilson remarks, watching her ass sway.

House rolls his eyes. His hand slides into his pocket and he listens for the familiar rattle of his Vicodin bottle.

'Lunch time visit?' Wilson says, 'what was that about?'

'She cut herself, making herself a patient. I am a doctor so I stitched her up,' House replies matter-of-factly.

He pops the lid on the brown plastic bottle and empties two pills into his hand. Wilson nods, watching Lee disappear down the corridor. The old woman is still waiting on the bench. She sees House at the door and hurries towards him. He watches her from the corner of his eye as he tips his head back, palm to his mouth.

'Finally!' the woman says, 'what was going on in there!'

She attempts to enter the room. House moves to block her path. She squints her eyes at him.

'Yes, what was going on in there, Doctor House?' Wilson asks, hands in pockets, grinning.

House flashes him a look, grinding the bitter pills between his molars. He turns to the woman.

'Sorry, I'm done now,' he says, re-entering the room to take Lee's file.

'You will have to wait for Doctor…' he glances at the chart on the door, 'Jackson…ha, good luck with that. He will be here….'

He looks at the clock, 'Ah, who knows! That clock is wrong!'

He leaves the room with Wilson in tow.

The woman shouts after him: 'Now just you wait a minute! I have been here for more then an hour now! It was my turn and you let that girlie in before me…'

House turns and shouts back to her, 'I know how you feel! I've been here since nine thirty this morning!'

They continue on down the hall as the woman's angry shouting fades into the background.

'Prioritising pretty girls?' Wilson says, teasingly.

'She lost a bit of blood. She almost passed out in the hall!' House says, tucking Lee's folder under his arm.

'Ah…a damsel in distress, well I hope you were there to catch her, prince charming,' Wilson says, grinning.

House shakes his head.

'Hey, you forgot something,' Wilson says, pointing to Lee's folder.

They step into the elevator.

'Oops, I'll have to take it back later!' House says, raising his eyebrows.

'Well I'm going back over past the clinic in a minute, I could return it for you,' Wilson says, knowing House's intentions very well.

'Nah, I wouldn't want to bother you,' House says as they exit the elevator and near his office.

'It's just a medical file! There is nothing interesting in there. What, are you going to read up on her vaccinations?'

'Wrong. Medical files can tell you plenty of things! Besides, she is not technically a patient at the clinic. The only reason we have her file is because she is an employee at this hospital, hence, this folder contains much more then just medical information,' House says.

'Well if you like her, why don't you just go about it the traditional way… ask her out, and then over dinner and a nice bottle of wine, you can ask her all of the things you would have read in the file.'

'What, like when she had her last pap smear test?'

'You want to know when she had her last pap smear test?'

'No, it's not even in this file. I was just trying to make your suggestion sound stupid.'

'Well what I meant was that you could ask her questions about the _more then just medical information,_ you were referring to.'

'Being sneaky is much more fun.'

'But if you ask her out, there is chance you might get laid, and getting laid is _even_ _much more_ fun.'

House rolls his eyes, 'it seems you've missed a fundamental point.'

'What's that?'

'I don't _like_ her, I'm just nosey,' House says, before turning from Wilson, opening the door and entering his office.

He makes his way to his desk, lowers himself into his chair, rests his legs on the table, and starts to flip through Lee's file.

_Lee Elspeth Emerson _

_DOB 7/5/1979_

Twenty seven. She is a little older then he had guessed. Dean's Scholar all throughout her studies, first class honours, university prizes, name on numerous high profile publications. _So she's a high achiever_, he thinks. At first he sees nothing out of the ordinary. He continues to read until he discovers something that captures his attention.

'Hmm,' he murmurs to himself, raising his eyebrows and grinning.


	7. VII Jailbird

VII - Jailbird

Thursday. She is in her office with a patient when he approaches and knocks on the door. He hears no reply. The door is unlocked. He enters. She is sitting on a chair leaning forward, her full attention focused on a woman sitting opposite her, crying hysterically. There are crumpled tissues scattered over the couch and floor. She faces him, furious.

'Ready to discuss the meds,' he says, discarding the apparent inappropriateness of his intrusion.

Calmly but sternly she says, 'busy.'

The situation is awkward, so by default, he turns his gaze to the woman on the couch, saying, 'Oh! Did you see Oprah too? It was a real tearjerker today!'

The woman's sobbing becomes louder.

'Get out!' Lee says harshly.

House pulls a face and takes a step back, shutting the door.

He returns at the end of the day. After checking with the receptionist he knocks at her door again. Hers is a private consulting room – no glass walls, not even a small glass panel in the door. Seconds later the door opens. She stands aside, allowing him to enter. She moves behind her desk and he sits in the chair opposite. He taps his cane once, twice, three times. Silence.

'How's the wrist?' he asks.

'Good…thanks to you.'

Silence.

'About this morning…' he says slowly, 'the woman with the Oprah issues…'

She can't help but smile, 'yeah…'

'I didn't know you had someone in here…' he continues.

'Yeah…'

'I knocked, you didn't answer…'

'Mm hmm…'

'So…'

'Are you trying to apologise?' she asks.

He nods once. She smiles again.

'You're not very good at apologies are you?' she says.

'Not a big fan.'

'Well, let's just leave it alone then shall we?'

He nods, grinning in appreciation.

Silence.

He rests his cane against her desk and pats the breast pockets of his jacket. He presents her with a piece of paper.

'Managed to narrow it down to three meds,' he says.

She takes the paper from him.

'They're all there – including a comprehensive list of side effects.'

Their eyes meet.

'Thanks,' she says, carefully placing the paper to the side of her desk.

He nods once again.

'Oh, here's your book…thanks,' she says, lifting the book from the desk and handing it to him.

He takes it from her.

Silence.

'Why were you arrested?' he says suddenly.

'What!' she asks, baffled.

'Why were you arrested?' he repeats the question in the exact same tone.

She shakes her head, 'Um, I haven't been arrested recently.'

'Have you ever been arrested?' he asks.

She thinks for a second. A smile begins in the corner of her mouth. She laughs.

He raises his eyebrows, his expression says _I'm waiting_.

'That! That was nothing,' she says, still smiling.

'That… what was _that_?'

'Actually, I was arrested twice.'

He raises his eyebrows higher.

'How on earth did you find out about that?' she asks.

He is overwhelmed with curiosity, and is becoming increasingly frustrated with her evasiveness.

'It was in your file.'

She furrowed her brow.

'How is that relevant to my health?'

'Well, that depends what you were arrested for…but technically it was in your employee record file.'

She regards him for a moment before offering her response.

'About five years ago, I lived in New York and I worked for Spencer Tunic.'

She pauses as she waits for him to register the name. He gives her a blank look.

'What is that? A clothing store?'

She laughs, 'no, haven't you ever heard of Spencer Tunic?'

He shakes his head.

'He's a famous photographer. Well infamous actually. He is always in the papers and on the news. He takes photographs of nude people in places you wouldn't expect to see them. Like in the middle of New York. I mean, like…lots of nude people. I guess it's sort of like installation art. Anyway, he was always in trouble – arrested for 'indecent acts' and I was his assistant so I was his partner in crime. It was never gratuitous or anything. The photographs were beautiful. Mostly, he shot them from behind, and we went to so much effort to make sure no one was going to be around. We were always shooting at ungodly hours of the morning.'

'Interesting,' he says.

'Yeah. You should Google him,' she says.

He nods.

'Actually…' she says, turning away from him and reaching for her handbag behind her desk.

'…a friend of mine has just bought a gallery on High Street, and he's doing some renovations, but he's opening it on Saturday night and he has asked me to show some of my photographs,' she says holding out a sheet of pink paper.

He looks at the paper.

'So, she's an artist?' he says.

She rolls her eyes, 'hardly, it's more of a hobby.'

She hands the paper to him.

'Here. It's an invitation to the gallery opening.'

He takes it from her and reads over it.

'There are going to be free drinks and stuff, so come if you want.'

'Saturday night?' he asks.

She nods.

'Can't, I got a thing.'

She regards him for a moment.

'Ok,' she says.

Silence.

She expects him to hand the invitation back to her, but instead he places it between the pages of his book, takes his cane and stands, eyeing her as her turns away from her. She smiles. He leaves.


	8. VIII Photograph

VIII - Photograph

Saturday night. He makes himself a microwave dinner and sits in front of the television watching CNN. He notices the pink invitation poking out of a pile of books on the coffee table. Hot pink – the paper demands his attention. He discards his meal and reaches for the invitation. He stares at the paper, reads the details of the event. He slumps back in his chair and stares at the ceiling. He stands, takes his cane, keys and phone and heads out the front door.

The gallery is a posh little place – the kind that has a regular base of affluent clientele, but he is impressed to see some modern, risqué works amongst the stuffy English looking paintings of cows standing in fields surrounded by ghastly gilded frames. He spots her instantly amongst the crowd – her hot red hair illuminated by the low hanging lights. She notices him and flashes him a wide smile. She finishes her conversation with a fat Mercedes driver type, and is standing in front of him within seconds. She is wearing a figure hugging mauve dress that pinches her tiny waist and lifts her pert breasts like a song. Modest breasts, nothing obscene. Her hair is tousled and rests casually on her pale shoulders. Diamond earrings, kohl rimmed eyes, musky perfume and take-me-to-bed-and-ravage-me stilettos.

'Hi.'

'Hi.'

'So you decided to come,' she says, sipping champagne.

'Yeah, change of plans.'

'Cool. Want a drink?'

'Ah, no…thanks.'

'Come to the photography section,' she says, touching his arm.

Her fingers curl around his arm now, and she turns from him, leading him to the opposite side of the room. He finds himself staring at her hand, clasping the sleeve of his jacket. He thinks she must have had a few glasses of champagne. He notices the feeling of butterflies in his stomach. _Damn it, what the hell are you doing?_ he asks himself. He follows her behind a partition and they stand in silence for a few seconds, scanning the various photographs.

'Which are yours?' he asks.

'Over here,' she says.

He follows. There are ten prints, all black and white.

'Did you develop them yourself?' he asks.

She nods.

'I hate digital cameras – it's like photography for dummies. I have a 1970's Minolta. I prefer to do it myself – with the chemicals and all. I have a makeshift darkroom in my spare bathroom.'

Silence.

'There is something beautiful about it' she continues, 'that moment when the photo just appears. One minute the paper is blank and then all of a sudden, the image is there – like magic.'

They regard one another. They both start to smile. He looks back to the photographs. There is one in particular which catches his attention. He moves closer to inspect it.

'That one was taken on a car ferry in Ireland,' she says.

His eyes move over the details of the photograph. Smooth water – like satin, parting in the rippling wake of – well, a car ferry. A perfect fold, as if a rough wool blanket has been pulled back to reveal satin sheets on a bed. It is strangely sexual.

She is distracted when a man taps her on the shoulder saying, 'sorry, can I just steal you away for a second.'

She looks at House.

'I'll be back in a minute,' she says.

He nods as she moves away. He finds the counter and enquires about purchasing works. He is directed to a bald man and makes arrangements to buy the photograph. After doing so, he leaves.


	9. IX Detour

IX – Detour

Give me new kicks,

Won't you show me new tricks,

Without the ramifications.

-

Pure Pleasure Seeker, Moloko

Monday. On his lunch break, he finds himself wandering away from the hospital, his ipod in his ears, blocking out the sounds of the public. He needs to walk – to clear his mind – and paradoxically, to help alleviate the pain in his leg. Walking the footpath, he dodges power walking couples with their oversized dogs and oversized egos. He squints in the sunlight. It is too much, too vivid, to real. Everything is exposed in the harsh light of day. The sun highlights every crack and stain and flaw in the world. He stops in the shadows of the buildings for a break, leaning heavily on his cane as he scrutinises his surroundings. Scrutiny comes so naturally to him. He continues walking until he discovers a decent looking coffee shop and seats himself inside the door. The waitress finds him and he orders a black coffee. The next thing he knows, his nostrils have been seduced by the musky sent of a woman's perfume and Lee Emerson is seated in front of him in a black and orange silk blouse and peach lip gloss. She smiles at him.

'Mind if I join you?'

'Well, it doesn't seem like I have a choice, you're already sitting.'

She smiles again and absently folds her hair back into place. It has been freshly washed and has all the shine and bounce of television commercial hair.

'You can tell me to leave if you want to,' she says, still smiling.

He smiles – he can't help it. The waitress returns and Lee makes the same order as him.

'Graham told me you bought one of my photos,' she says.

He nods.

'That was nice of you.'

'I bought it because I liked it,' he says, matter-of-factly.

This was half true. Whether or not he cared to admit it to himself, his fondness for the photograph was intensified by the fact that she had taken it, and developed it herself. She smiles again.

They share coffee and surprisingly effortless conversation about art and music and the weather, of all things. She says it rarely drops below twenty degrees Celsius where she is from, and she loves the cold whether in New Jersey. He makes her laugh, repeatedly: genuine, embarrassing snorting laughter and he smiles, delighted with himself for achieving this. She is awestruck – he is even better then she had imagined when she had watched him from a distance. They experience the first awkward silence of the conversation and she breaks it almost immediately with an even more awkward question.

'So, are you seeing anyone?'

His eyes flick up from his coffee cup to meet hers. Her expression is insistent, blunt.

'Ah, you mean like dating?'

She shrugs. 'Yeah, if that's what you want to call it.'

He releases a short, quiet laugh and returns his gaze to the coffee cup. 'No.'

'I'm surprised.'

He raises his eyebrows. There are so many possible angles that he doesn't know which direction to attack this statement from.

'You're only new. You have no idea.'

She continues to stare at him interrogatingly.

'Just drop my name around the hospital. In a short amount of time you'll come to learn that I'm a real jerk. Not exactly long term relationship material,' he says.

She wonders what he would think if he knew that she had been dropping his name around the hospital, and that she hadn't been deterred by what she had heard.

'I'm not looking for anything long term. I'm just looking for someone to…_entertain_ me,' she says, suggestively.

'You seem rather _entertaining_,' she adds, a seductive smile curling her lips.

He stares at her in awe. He cannot believe that in the stark reality of the day, in this ordinary little coffee shop, such a beautiful young woman is sitting across from him and making such suggestions. He glances out the window, letting the harsh glare cause his eyes to squint just so that he knows he's alive. He needs to clarify this with her, and naturally he has no reservations. He looks back at her, lowers his voice and leans closer to her.

'Are you offering me sex with no strings attached?' he asks.

She smiles again. 'You seem like the type of guy who isn't particularly fond of strings.'

She is in a position of power because he wants it – maybe even needs it. He continues to stare in disbelief and just as he feels the pressure of having to respond, the waitress re-appears, breaking their view of one another while she clears their cups away. The waitress retreats.

'How did you get here?' she asks, as if she hadn't just made a candid, outrageous proposal.

'I walked.'

'Want a lift back to the hospital?'

Curiously he accepts the offer of a lift. In her car, he is on edge, distracted by her other offer, torn between raw desire, biological urge, and stern apprehensiveness. He is considering accepting her offer. He cannot believe he is considering accepting her offer, but he cannot let it go. It is dangling in front of him like a carrot in front of a donkey. Homeostasis - maintaining equilibrium. There is an ultimate state of functioning – of balance. When the body sways from that state, it sends messages with the goal of returning to that state. The body tells you when it needs things. When you are thirsty, you need to drink. When you are hungry you need to eat. When you are cold you need to cover yourself with layers of clothing, when you are hot you need to remove layers of clothing. When you are deficient of physical gratification, you need sexual intercourse, or less eloquently – when you are horny you need to fuck. He is talking himself into it. He comforts himself by thinking that they can do it once, and then maybe afterwards she will be disappointed, or tire of him and leave him alone.

They take a detour on the way back to the hospital, ending up at her place - something to do with retrieving a patient file. An awkward shuffle inside the front door dissolves into a kiss. He can't remember who started it, but he thinks he kissed her first. She thinks she may have sent him the wrong message – been too forward. She didn't mean to seduce him this afternoon, but she is happy to accommodate this misunderstanding. Her lips against his, soft and full. Her tongue against his, hot and wet. _God_ it feels good. Her hands at his jaw, gripping and guiding purposefully, his hands on her waist, his cane bumping her legs, and then his palms pressed against the glass panel on the front door as she pulls him hard against her. He figures that if he is going to take her up on her offer, now is as good a time as any.

'Where's your bedroom?'

Deep red walls, low mattress, crisp cream sheets, cashmere blankets, dirty afternoon sex. He is so hard it is almost painful. Standing at the foot of the bed, his hands move up her body, lifting her skirt as they travel. She is wearing lace top stockings and he wonders how long he can last. On the bed. He is nervous. Leering and making sexually suggestive comments is one thing, actually going through with it is an entirely different matter. His hands tremble. She notices this and it makes her want him even more. Tiny buttons – seems like hundreds of them, and then miraculously – silken pale skin and black lace. His tongue is in her navel, his unshaven chin grazing her skin. The soft, wet feel of his tongue juxtaposing with the prickle of his stubble is erotic. She wants him to mark her, wants to see the saliva glistening, wants to see where his whiskers leave her skin red raw, wants him to bruise her in this frenzy of desire. His hands: greedily tugging at delicate undergarments, then at her knees parting her legs. His fingers explore her folds and he realizes just how much she wants him, but why he does not know.

He knows this may be their only time together, and while a part of him wants her to forget it forever, a part of him wants her to remember. He decides he wants to please her so he moves his head between her thighs. She sighs, soft sighs and quivers as he touches his tongue to her ever so lightly - the taste of sex. He persists – lapping slowly and gently until her back arches and the lace tops of her stockings press against his ears as she comes. _'Oh god House!'_ His name slips out and bounces off the walls. She didn't mean to call this out - it is so clichéd it makes her cringe. He is surprised, but pleased. It travels up his spine like an electric shock, makes his heart pound furiously. Her body relaxes, pressing heavily into the mattress. Her eyes are wide and her breathing is sharp. He watches her, sees what he has done to her. She reaches for him, clutching his arms, overwhelmed with the need to leave him as sated as he has left her.

He is on his back, arms above his head, listening to the sound of his belt buckle clinking. He watches her, her eyes dark with lust as she regards his erection. He is big. Not thick, but long. She notices his scar but doesn't let him know this. She doesn't care about that now. She moves closer and his eyes flick to the ceiling. He can't bear to watch, it will be too much… but he has to, his eyes flick back to her. She licks him, just the head and then the underside and his hands cover his face. He is whimpering like a dog left out in the cold. Now she moves above him, being careful but not obviously so, as she lowers herself on him, holding the bed head for support. She pauses for a moment, savoring the feeling of being filled with him completely. He watches her as she begins moving slowly, and for a moment he silently admits gratitude.

The imagery is _fantastically_ graphic – her rhythm as she moves on him, his fingers splayed on her thighs. It seems so urgent. She is still wearing her stockings and stilettos. He pushes her skirt up to see how they fit together. She smiles and he comes. The intensity of it is shocking. She feels him spasm beneath her, and she feels the warm spurt of his cum inside her. He gasps - the air harsh in his throat. She doesn't come a second time, but she feels the pleasure in a different way - the pleasure of knowing his pleasure. She lowers her chest to his, kissing him messily, rubbing her palm over his stubbled cheek, and he purses his lips lazily against hers, staring, stunned. She moves off of him and droplets of his cloudy fluid spill over the crumpled sheets.

Lying beside him after a moment, she laughs and covers her face.

'I actually had to get a file,' she says 'I swear I didn't intend for this to happen, at least not today.'

He smiles absently.

Her hand finds his cane, discarded on the bed beside her.

'Should we go back to work now?' she asks.

'I suppose that's the best thing to do.'

She pushes herself off the bed and disappears into her bathroom to tidy herself.

She carries the offending file to the car. He eyes it. He is silently thanking 'Bertha Jennings,' for being indirectly responsible for one of the most intense sexual experiences of his life, whilst simultaneously cursing the wench for causing the event and thus making his mind race with complex and frightening scenarios about the aftermath. He is silent as she drives them back to the hospital. She is behaving as if nothing has happened, asking him innocuous questions and ignoring the curtness of his responses. He stares forward.

'You know where to find me,' she says with a smile, as they part ways in the foyer of the hospital.

He nods once and continues on his way.


	10. X Poison

X – Poison

Be a crime against passion,

Not to itch that itch,

Oh don't ask how it happened,

This is it.

-

Pure Pleasure Seeker, Moloko

He decides she is his exact opposite. She is young, unspoiled, beautiful, fresh and golden. He is old, crippled, crabby, jaded and grey. He snarls, trying to suppress the images, but the harder he tries to suppress them, the more vividly they come. Her golden red hair spilled over his lap, her back arching, the graphic image of their bodies fitting together perfectly, her thighs on either side of him, pressed against his hips. He cannot believe it happened. The memories could be mistaken for the images in his dreams. It had been spontaneous, blissful, carnal, dirty, beautiful sex. They hadn't even used a condom, he had just spilled into her. He knows she is an intelligent woman – he had assumed she was on the pill. Regardless, he reprimands himself. He is a doctor, he should know better, he had rarely had unprotected sex in his life – it is too risky and pregnancy is not the only issue. Weighing things up, he decides that all in all, he doesn't regret it. Sure, life was going to be hell having to deal with her now, but the feel of her…of sliding into her, tight and silky.

He decides to think of it as a generous gift for a jaded old cripple. He considers the fact that it was probably the last time in his life he would ever receive such a gift – the gift of being seen through the eyes of genuine desire and lust – if that was what it was. He believes that it was. He is tormented with thoughts about her motivations. It is too easy to think that she had felt sorry for him, and besides, she had been so wet for him…she had trembled at his touch. Before he had met her, he had accepted that at this stage in his life, in _his_ sad life, it was unlikely that he would ever have sex with a woman again without paying her afterwards. Now, he cannot understand why this ripple has appeared in what he thought was the smooth surface of his fate. For a second he feels a pang of deep melancholy. He decides to let the images flow freely now, for they are a far superior alternative to the black thoughts in the back of his mind. After some time of free thinking, he makes a decision to try and forget it. He had spoilt himself by letting himself have her, but reality is setting in now. He hopes that she had been disappointed with his performance – or more generally, with him, and will not attempt to make contact with him again.

After lunch on Monday he finds a box on his desk. It is small and is wrapped in red paper with a matching ribbon. He is intrigued. He lifts the box, shakes it. There is no card, no note. He smells it, runs the ribbon through his fingers. He opens it. Chocolates. His first instinct is to rip the packaging open with abandon, and he considers which to eat first before pausing. Who would leave a gift for him? Disgruntled clinic patients and furious family members are the only people who come to mind. Laced? He gently places the box on the desk. He reads the box: raspberry and champagne truffles. Chase enters the room.

'Got the x-rays for Mrs Gordon,' Chase says.

'Good,' says House, 'chocolate?' he holds the box out to Chase.

Chase raises his eyebrows as if to say 'don't mind if I do.' He takes a chocolate and drops it into his mouth without much consideration. He exits the room and House watches him.

Hours later, House joins the three doctors in the conference room, chocolate box in hand.

'How are you feeling?' he asks Chase.

Chase screws up his face, 'who me?'

'I was looking at you wasn't I?'

'I'm fine, why?'

'No reason,' says House, taking a seat at the head of the table and opening the box of chocolates. He takes the nearest one and swiftly places it in his mouth.

'Oh! Oh my god!' he exclaims, turning the velvety confection over his tongue.

The other doctors stare at him.

'That's almost better then sex!' he continues, placing another chocolate in his mouth, '_almost_…'

Chase attempts to take another chocolate and House smacks his hand away.

'Wha… you offered me one before…'

'That was before, this is now…'

'So what's the difference?'

'Well, now I know they are safe to eat. Would you eat chocolates that had been mysteriously left on _my_ desk? No way, they could have been laced with poison.'

'Well I _did_ eat chocolates that had been mysteriously left on your desk, because I wasn't aware of that fact,' Chase says, annoyed.

'You got Chase to test the chocolates to see if they were safe to eat?' Cameron says, shocked.

'Oh relax, we're in a hospital – he would have been fine.'

'Wait, so if they weren't left to kill you, or make you seriously ill, then they were left as a gift…who on earth would leave you a token of gratitude?' Forman says.

'Maybe one of the hundreds of individuals whose lives I've saved,' House says, placing yet another chocolate in his mouth.

'Or maybe someone who has a raging crush on you…like Cameron,' Chase teases.

'Wasn't me!' Cameron says defiantly.

Later, he offers the chocolates to Wilson as they chat in his office.

'You just found them on your desk?' Wilson asks.

'Yep, and the box was wrapped in this,' House says, holding the remanence of the red paper and ribbon out for Wilson to inspect.

'How many have you eaten? Are you feeling ok?' Wilson asks.

'I've already been down that road – I got Chase to test them, and I've been eating them for hours.'

'Wow, these are really expensive you know,' Wilson says, inspecting the box.

'You would. I suppose you bought them for one of your wives after an argument.'

'Well yes actually, they are from a little deli in Hamilton Street. They are hand made, three dollars each.'

House's eyes widen. He realises he should have been savouring them, rather then swallowing them practically whole.

'So…Cameron?' Wilson says.

House shakes his head, 'she said it wasn't her.'

'Who else would make such a romantic gesture?' Wilson asks, baffled.

House knows who left them. He has known all along, but he has only just accepted the fact. Wilson had said they were from a Deli on Hamilton Street. Lee Emerson lives on Hamilton Street.

He tries to focus on work, but he keeps finding references to her. Cameron says something about a patient's psyc report, and he thinks about her. The red colour of the mug in his hand makes him think about her. The black coffee inside the red mug in his hand makes him think about her. Hearing Chase's Australian accent makes him think about her. _Wouldn't those two have a ball together?_ he thinks. Chase would puff out his chest and do his 'I'm a doctor' thing, and she'd giggle and touch his knee, and they'd talk about Sydney, or kangaroos or something, and then they'd fuck all night long. He sneers at Chase as they sit in the tearoom, debating the differential diagnosis of a patient. He has to put her out of his mind. He is confident that he can suppress all thoughts of her – he has achieved this feat in the past, it simply requires effort and dedication – or more specifically: a couple of weeks, a few extra Vicodin and several bottles of Scotch Whiskey.

Later, he exits the elevator and notices her standing at the nurse's station in the main foyer. He experiences a sinking feeling – rapidly losing confidence in his plan to suppress her. She is divine. He approaches her and after a quick surveillance of the area, he taps her on the shoulder. She looks up at him through her long lashes. Her dark eyes are bright. She smiles at him.

'Did you leave chocolates on my desk?' he asks quietly.

Her smile widens.

'I'm trying to seduce you,' she whispers in a suitably seductive voice.

'What do you want?' he says mildly.

'I want an encore.'

She watches him, waiting for his response. He has no response. His eyes search her face, endeavouring to gauge her intentions. Cuddy appears beside him. She doesn't seem to notice the way House and Lee regard one another.

'House. Clinic duty. Now,' Cuddy says.

Lee turns and calmly walks away.


	11. XI Vampire

XI – Vampire

Come in, come in  
Come into my world I've got to show  
Show show you  
Come into my bed  
I've got to know  
Know know you

-

Hotel Song- Regina Spektor

It is two weeks before he gives in. Two weeks before he sees her again. Actually sees her. He sees her around the hospital of course, and she smiles the same fascinating smile, but he _actually_ sees her when he turns up on her doorstep on a Friday night with Chinese take-out. She is pleased to see him but she does not appear to be surprised. She smiles, leaning on the doorframe.

'You brought food,' she says.

He nods.

'Good boy,' she says standing aside, allowing him to enter, 'I like food.'

'Most Humans do. I knew I was onto a winner.'

She closes the door – moves away from it. He follows her.

'Wilson's staying at my place and he's driving me crazy,' he announces.

'Yeah?'

'Yeah.'

She takes the bag from him and enters the kitchen which consists of dark wood benches and black bench tops.

'Why's that?' she asks.

He leans on the bench.

'He blow dries his hair. As if that's not bad enough in isolation, he does it for hours in the morning while I'm trying to sleep.'

'Mmm! Beef and black bean,' she says, opening one of the cardboard containers, 'good choice.'

She looks at him, 'sorry, keep venting.'

'His wife fired the housecleaner and he felt bad, so he's got her cleaning my place and she moves everything!'

'Argh, I hate that! I prefer to have a mess because it's my mess, and it's a somewhat organized mess…so I know where to find things.'

'Yes!' he says, agreeing enthusiastically.

'I'm a bit of a traditionalist,' she says, pushing the chopsticks aside and rolling out a draw to select a fork.

The lounge area is painted indigo, with a white ceiling. There is a strange bookshelf with diagonal, v-shaped shelves occupying one whole wall behind them and he throws it a glance, meaning to investigate it later. They sit on old fashioned leather sofas and he notices the vase of fresh black-red roses on the coffee table, beside a stack of _Vogue_ magazines. There is an odd art-deco style lamp of a woman holding a globe of light on a side table, and an old, clunky black phone with numbers you have to dial, from the forties.

'Well, I don't blow dry my hair very often, so I'd offer for you to stay here, but I can't guarantee you'd get any sleep,' she says winking at him.

He grins, staring down at his food. He had half intended to stay here, at least for the night. She leaves the room and returns with a bottle of red wine and two glasses. She pours herself a glass and raises her eyebrows at him in question as she pauses with the bottle hovering above the empty glass. He nods.

Empty take-out containers and empty wineglasses later, she moves next to him on the sofa. He is sitting a little too straight and his eyes move a little too quickly over her face, betraying the fact that he is still not completely comfortable with her.

'Did you paint this place yourself?' he asks

'Yes.'

'It's very…colourful,' he says, smiling.

Her eyes move over his face and she pokes her finger in the dimple that has appeared on his cheek.

'What are you doing here Greg?' she asks calmly.

He jolts slightly at hearing his Christian name on her lips for the first time.

'I brought Chinese take-out,' he says matter-of-factly.

'I know that, and it was very nice, but why else?'

He regards her silently. Her eyes move from his eyes to his lips and she kisses him, as if to say, 'is this why?' and he is relieved, for more reasons than the fact that he isn't required to answer her question. He feels her eyelashes brush against his face as she closes her eyes. He opens his mouth slightly in response to her kiss, before closing his lips again. They kiss gently, experimentally, mouths opening and closing on one another, her bottom lip catching in between his. He feels the pressure in his head, the blood rushing. When their tongues touch, he remembers their first kiss against her front door. Soft and delicate: it is the kind of feeling that cannot be matched. He wonders why he has been able to hold out for so long before meeting with her again. She breaks the kiss and begins working his belt. He is growing hard at the very sight.

'Ever since our coffee break encounter, I've been hoping you would show up on my doorstep,' she says.

He watches as she pops the spoke free and coaxes the leather band through the metal rectangle. She unzips his fly and sends her hand inside his open jeans to grope his swelling erection. He inhales sharply. She pushes the elastic of his boxers down enough to lift his cock free. His head drops back as she grips him, stroking firmly. He watches silently and appreciatively as she stands and reaches under her skirt to remove her underwear. She slides one knee beside his thigh on the sofa and lifts the other over his body. She kneels above him, looking down. His hard penis points at her, waiting. She lowers herself, slipping him easily into her silken entrance and receiving his groan with a smile. She knows that she cannot sit completely. In the bed, he had been sprawled on his back and she was able to fit on his hips, but now with him sitting, her thighs would be in direct contact with his and her weight would put too much pressure on his damaged thigh. She grips the back of the couch with one hand and lowers herself as far as she can without making contact with his thigh. She places her free hand at the base of his neck and coaxes him into an open mouthed kiss that can only be described as pornographic. The way her tongue laps at his is obscenely erotic - it's the kind of kiss that, done in public, would make old ladies tut in disapproval and small children ask _where do babies come from?_

She begins to move, rising up so that he comes completely out of her and the head of his cock teases her clit before she carefully sinks down to let him enter her again. She closes her eyes as she moves like this, and he hears the rumble in her throat. She comes quickly, opening her eyes and squeezing his shoulder. She pauses for a few seconds, before sinking down on him again, re-focusing, aiming at producing his orgasm. He grips her, guiding her as she begins moving faster now. She watches him: penetrating eye contact. It is as if she is unabashedly saying 'that's right, I'm fucking you.' It is enough to make him come hard.

She carefully dismounts him, poring them each a fresh glass of wine and reclining on the sofa opposite him. She watches him as she sips her wine slowly, her body still tingling from her orgasm. He rearranges his clothing and sits silently for a few seconds before reaching for the glass she has left for him. She feels the outcome of his orgasm trickling down the inside of her thigh and smiles to herself.

'What's the story with your crazy bookshelf?' he asks, throwing his head back over the couch.

'I saw it in a magazine and hired a carpenter to make it. You should have seen the look on his face.' She pauses, 'you seem fascinated with my décor.' She turns the glass in her hands.

'I like it,' he says, facing her.

He thinks it is the perfect reflection of her – unique, off-beat in an elegant way. The colours are dark and rich – plum, indigo, midnight blue, deep merlot, black and oak instead of the boring cream and beige colours most people opt for. The furnishings are a mix of modern, and antique pieces from a variety of eras - the twenties all the way through to the seventies. There is not too much clutter and not too little – just enough. He hates it when people's homes appear as if they are not lived in – as if they are display homes. Consistent with their conversation in the coffee-shop, she has many works of art displayed around the walls. His attention is caught by an Andy Warhol style screen print of a woman in a black dress and stilettos, holding a smoking gun. It reads: _damned if you do, dead if you don't_. He smiles to himself upon reading this. He notices a shelf with several framed photographs and resolves to investigate it at a later time along with the bookshelf. Her place is a veritable treasure trove of telling personal possessions and interesting objects. He is fascinated. He looks back at her and wonders why on earth she has allowed him into this extraordinary place, and more pertinently, why she had allowed him into _her_.

'Aren't you going to ask me about my leg?' he asks curiously.

'Do you want to tell me about it?' she says, rolling her head to look at him.

'Do you want to know?'

She sits up, smiling.

'I have a confession to make – I already know. I went behind your back and asked.'

'Who?'

'Your friend Wilson.'

She places her glass on the table and moves past it to sit next to him again.

'Why didn't you ask me?' he says.

'It was well before I had even had a proper conversation with you,' she replies, 'I just had to know, and I thought it would have been rude if I just walked up to you one day and said: _hey mate, what happened to your leg?_'

He can't help but smile.

'You know…I don't often do this…' she says.

'Do what?'

'Sleep with men I barely know. Let them into my home.'

He regards her.

'Honestly I don't,' she says, 'I've been in New Jersey for about ten months now and you are the first American man I have ever slept with.'

'So you've been limiting yourself to women and tourists?'

'No,' she says, smiling at his joke, 'you are the first _person_ I have slept with.'

'Ah that's too bad! I was just indulging in a little fantasy of you having sex with a buxom blonde Swedish woman named Heidi.'

She laughs, 'No, I'm dead serious.'

He knows she is. He can tell by her expression, her manner. She is telling the truth, and it is baffling.

'So why me?' he asks.

'I'm fascinated by you,' she says.

'Right, what you mean to say is that you feel sorry for me.'

It had to be said.

She shakes her head.

'You don't feel sorry for me at all?'

'Ok, I'm not going to lie to you,' she says, 'I do feel sorry for you. Of course I do. This has happened to you…' she motions towards his leg, 'and it's not exactly a blessing. You're in pain…frequently, what sort of human being would I be if I didn't feel sorry for you?'

He attempts to speak but she presses her finger to his lip.

'No, I'm on a role,' she says, 'so, I admit that I feel sorry for you, but I didn't have sex with you for this reason. I have people sitting on my couch all day long, telling me they want to throw themselves off of buildings, and I feel sorry for them, but I don't want to sleep with any of them.'

She pauses and he regards her silently.

'Greg, I really actually like you,' she says sincerely in her softest voice, 'it shouldn't have to be said, but I think there is much more to you than this,' she motions to his leg again.

He is embarrassed. He looks at the floor and furrows his brow as if he has suddenly noticed something incredibly interesting on her rug.

'I don't know how to say this without it sounding like a line from a movie or something but…you just turn me on.' She shrugs.

'You make me laugh,' she continues, 'you're unpredictable, curious…you're a rebel, a bully, a brain…you have so many traits and they just fit together perfectly. I've never met anyone in my life who has intrigued me quite as much as you, and that is the truth.'

He is speechless for a moment.

'I'm substantially older then you, I'm a drug addict… a cripple,' he says.

'Cripple?' she shakes her head, 'doesn't suit you… the word has certain connotations of…incapability, and I'd be willing to bet that you are one of _the most_ capable men around.'

'I'm damaged, physically and psychologically. I bet you're thinking I'd be a great patient,' he says.

'No, I'm not thinking that at all. I don't want to _fix_ you, Greg. I can't, whether it's through a professional, psychologist-patient relationship, or any other sort of relationship. I know it sounds corny but only you can do that, if you need to and if you really want to.'

There is a pause as they regard one another.

'Chicken pox?' she asks, changing the subject, touching the pock-mark scar on the right side of his nose.

He nods. She turns her head to the side and points to a matching scar near her eyebrow. He smiles again, feeling like an idiot. She moves her hands so that her fingers are splayed around his ears and tilts his head back to nip at his neck. She sucks the skin in between her lips. She is a sexual predator, and he can't help but be thrilled that she has chosen him as her victim.

'I knew it. The pale skin, taste for red wine…you're a vampire,' he says.

She continues to suck his skin until the blood rises to the surface. He makes a note to himself to wear a rollneck jumper to work on Monday.

She laughs, 'yes and I'm going to suck you dry.'

'What do you want from this?' he asks.

'You mean, what do I want from you?' she says, releasing his head.

He nods.

'Not too much. I want you on my sofa, just as you are. I want you in my bed again…' she kisses his lips lightly.

'Hmm…that's all I can think of for now,' she says finally, leaving him sitting on the couch and disappearing into her bedroom.

He wakes in the early morning, to a pain in his leg. It is still dark and cold but the moonlight streaming through the window illuminates the room. She sleeps on her stomach, arms encircling the pillow, her face to the side. Her hair appears black in the dim light, and collects by her shoulders. He can remember when he first touched it – how it was so soft he could barely even feel it slip through his fingers. He takes in the shape of her naked back – her shoulder blades, the dip of her spine. He wants to press his palm between her shoulders and kiss her there, but he doesn't wake her. He knows she probably wouldn't mind, and he would probably end up inside her again. She is an insatiable pleasure–seeker, a hedonist. She isn't shy about her body – she has no reason to be, and she knows how to use it. They had had sex three more times following the sofa and each time it was a decadent affair. He had reached for the lamp beside the bed but she had insisted that he leave the light on. 'I want to see you,' she had said. They had gorged themselves – unashamedly indulged in each others bodies – stroking, touching, tasting. He had felt as if they had been actors in some sort of tasteful porn taping or a photo shoot for _The Joy of Sex_. He had never orgasmed so frequently in his life. He was surprised he was able to keep up with her. He had even accepted that as part of her becoming accustomed with his body, she should need to inspect his scar, and she did so in a way that met his approval. She had said nothing and there was no expression of pity on her face – just pure curiosity, and he appreciated that. Where the muscle tissue was missing, it looked as if his thigh had deflated, and there was a large, deep, lumpy zigzag scar in the centre. Her small delicate hand had moved to cover it and he hadn't even flinched.

He dresses himself in his boxer-shorts now, and rummages through the pockets of his discarded clothing to find his bottle of Vicodin. He can usually dry swallow the pills but his throat is parched so he moves to the bathroom. He dips at the sink and drinks from the tap, before lifting the lid on the toilet to pee. He flushes and is sure to put the toilet seat down when he is finished. Washing his hands, he surveys the bathroom. It is the least colourful room in the apartment, but it still has character. There are black tiles on the floor and the walls are painted white. There is an antique bath with gold claw feet and a modern shower. She has dark red towels and the sink is cluttered with various intriguing and expensive looking cosmetics. She seems to have every tone of red lipstick and lip gloss imaginable – in brands such as Dior and Chanel and her mascara is called 'bad gal lashes.' He grins to himself.

He is most intrigued by her perfume, which she keeps on a vertical row of shelves beside the mirror. Each shelf has a different bottle and he inspects them one by one. The first is a heavy rectangular bottle with a round glass lid and brown liquid – Gucci. It smells heady and smoky. The second is a dark purple bottle with a black crystal lid. It is sweeter then the others, but similarly dark. He likes this one the least. The third is a rectangular bottle with clear liquid and an old fashioned purple compressor. It is more reserved then the others – more like something that Stacy would have worn – professional. Stacy had only had a single bottle of perfume – CK one. The fourth is his favourite, and the one he has noticed her wearing. He immediately recognises the scent – like rose petals with a spicy, peppery overtone. It smells how sex would smell if it was made into a perfume. He likes the bottle the best as well. It looks like an open blood red heart, protected by a silver sphere. He thinks it suits her perfectly.


	12. XII Rendezvous

XII – Rendezvous

House arrives in his office after having lunch with Wilson in the cafeteria and finds that a package has been delivered. He lifts it, inspects it. Based on the shape and weight, he deduces that it is a book, but he can't remember ordering one. He checks the address. It has his name. He reclines in his chair and begins hacking at the packaging with a letter opener, ignoring Cameron when she arrives, places an x-ray on the display board and begins chattering about a patient's lungs. Finally he has the package open, and no sooner does he have the book out, he is shoving it back in and hoping Cameron hasn't noticed. She glances at him sideways, momentarily wondering why he is behaving so peculiarly, before returning her attention to the x-ray.

'There's a new radiologist and I think she may have screwed up,' she says, looking at him.

'Get another x-ray then, but most importantly, _go away_.'

She snatches the x-ray off the board and leaves in a huff.

He watches her leave and removes the book from the packaging again, grinning to himself. It is a copy of the _Karma Sutra_. He upends the package and a note falls out, along with a packet of _post-its_.

_Greg,_

_Mark any pages you think might work for us._

_You know who… _

_xoxo _

'I'm on a lunch break,' he says, walking into her office and sitting in her chair.

She is rifling through her filling cabinet.

She grins at him. 'Did you happen to get a special delivery?'

'Special delivery? I wouldn't know…Cameron opens my mail,' he says, nonchalantly, swivelling in the chair.

She grins, before a mischievous giggle escapes. She moves to sit on her desk in front of him.

'Well in that case, you'd better go and check.'

'I opened it,' he confesses, 'would have been amusing to watch Cameron's face though.'

By this stage he is on his feet, standing in front of her. He has settled now – he feels more comfortable touching her. At first he did so cautiously, as if he expected that any second she would snap out of it, come back down to earth and slap his hands away in shock. One of his hands moves to her knee and with the other, he starts to trace his fingers over her cleavage. He revels in the fact that he has permission to touch this woman, whenever and wherever he likes. He takes advantage of this fact. Visiting her in her office like this is just one example.

'You know, I had this fabulous dream last night,' he says, 'very vivid…dirty. I had this redhead, and then I had her again…and again…'

His hand moves up her skirt, over her thigh.

She grins. 'You're not getting any, so don't try to turn me on.'

'Oh, but I've been charting all day.' He gives her a mock pout.

Her expression says 'so?'

'Charting makes me horny,' he says, displaying one of his comical faces, 'and besides, it's your fault…you're the one who sent me porn.'

'The karma sutra is not porn, it's a lover's manual,' she jokes.

He takes her face in his hands, pulling her closer and kissing her on the mouth. The kiss is intense, and after allowing herself a few seconds of enjoyment, she pulls away from him.

'Greg...'

He ignores her apparent lack of enthusiasm and pulls her forward so that she hops off the desk in front of him. His hands move up under her skirt and his fingers catch in the waistband of her underpants.

'Greg. We can't have sex on my desk!' she whispers, removing his hands.

'You wanna do it in the chair?' he says, pulling a face.

She pulls a face in return.

'On the couch? That'll bring back some memories when you're psycho-analysing your patients.'

'I'm a CBT therapist, not a psychodynamic therapist, and no, we can't have sex in my office.'

'Well mine has glass walls, so… yours it is.' His hands return up her skirt.

'We can't have sex at WORK.'

'Why not? It certainly alleviates the tedium. In fact, I think I work better after sex.' He tries to kiss her again, but she turns her head.

'No one will come in, they'll think you're with a patient,' he says this in her ear as his finger traces circles over the lace of her underwear.

She sighs and shuts her eyes tightly.

'Yeah, well I should be with a patient, and I'm expecting one to arrive very soon.'

'Don't worry, I'll be quick.'

She rolls her eyes.

'No,' she says, 'but I suppose we could make out for a bit.'

She reaches her arm up and guides his face to hers, kissing him gently once more.

'So you're going to get me all worked up and send me out there with a raging hard on?' he says, pursing his lips against hers.

'Fine then,' she says, pulling away, 'no kissing.'

She attempts to move away from him, but he holds her in place. Iron grip. She kisses him again, opening her mouth and subtly tracing her tongue over his bottom lip. He senses this immediately, opening his mouth in response and touching his tongue to hers. She sighs at this, and pulls him closer, so that his hand slides all the way up the smooth, soft skin of her thigh. She removes his hands, but he will not be defeated. Now he loosens the first few buttons of her blouse, revealing a pink bra. After a brief moment of inspection he places his right hand on her breast and moves in to kiss the side of her neck. She drops her head to give him access. He appreciates the scent of her, and the warmth of her skin against his lips and tongue. His hands move back to her thighs and she pulls away from him.

'Ok Mr wandering hands,' she says, re-buttoning her blouse, 'that's just the preview, you'll have to wait till tonight.'

'Not tonight, I've got to work late. Come to my place tomorrow night, Wilson will be out.'

He makes his way to the door.

'Greg,' she calls as his hand touches the doorknob. He looks back at her.

'That shade of lipstick really suits you.'

He widens his eyes and attempts to smudge the lipstick away with the back of his hand.

'Better.' She smiles, watching him leave.

The next evening, she arrives at his apartment. The door is unlocked, but when she enters he is nowhere in sight. She notices the light on in his study and makes her way over to the door. She can hear his voice inside. She enters to find him on the phone. He is standing with his back to her, looking out of the window. He hears her enter and casts a look over his shoulder, before turning from her again. She approaches him slowly.

'Right,' he is saying, 'do an MRI, and tox screen.'

She slides her arms around him, hugging him from the behind. One arm stays up high, her fingers fiddling with his buttons, while the other slips down low. No pretence – her hand moves straight to his crotch, feeling him through the thin material of his beige slacks. He inhales sharply. She feels his body stiffen as she gently caresses him.

'Ah, yeah…' he says down the phone, obviously losing his concentration.

She moves to stand in front of him, smiling widely. She pushes him back gently to sit in his chair and spreads his legs enough so that she is able to sit between them in the available space. She takes his left hand and places it on her breast. She shifts in the chair, enjoying the feeling of his erection pressing against her buttocks.

'Look…I gotta go, just get the damn tests done, and don't call me back tonight,' he says, placing the phone back on the receiver.

'After you felt me up in my office, I had a dream that you fucked me over the desk at work,' she purrs.

'Well I tried to.' He grins, parting her legs and slipping his hand behind the material of her underpants.

She sighs and squeezes her eyes shut, resting her head on his shoulder as he teases her clit with his index finger whilst kissing the side of her neck.

'Well, call me a prude but I thought it would have been very unprofessional, regardless of whether or not anyone knew about it,' she says.

'That's too bad…' he says, in between kisses, 'I thought it would have been an unforgettable sexual rendezvous.'

Unwillingly, she removes his hand from her underpants and stands. He watches her as she moves to lean on the desk.

'Luckily, you have a desk at home…' she looks at the desk, running her hands over the tinted wood.

He gets to his feet and moves to stand in front of her.

'And it's almost identical. If you were to try it on again, I think you'd find that I'm perfectly willing to be fucked on this desk.'

He grins and reaches for her. His hands up her skirt – her underwear at her feet. He takes her face in his hands, tasting her lips. He turns her away from him, holding her body to his – his hand between her thighs. She moans as his fingers work, causing her a throbbing pleasure. He feels her quivering. He senses she is close. He turns her again. She is like a doll in his hands. He gently pushes her to lie back on the desk. He watches her watching him as he begins to unbuckle his belt. He knows she is eager to have him inside her and so he teases her by moving slowly. He watches her chest rising and falling with her rapid breathing and notes how she bites her lip in anticipation. Finally, he unzips his fly and frees himself. She is at the very edge of the desk and he parts her legs around him, guiding his cock to her entrance. She moans, arching her back when he enters her. At last. She shudders. He grunts and begins moving slowly. Although he is tall, the desk is the perfect height for him to fuck her, which he does with increasing enthusiasm. Their gaze is locked - unyielding eye contact. Their bodies buck and arch together. Books and various objects fall away to the floor.

_God it feels fantastic._ His hands on her thighs, fingers digging, bare skin rubbing. He pushes her skirt up higher around her waist so he can watch himself moving in her.

'Ugh!' He almost loses it.

He tilts his head back and closes his eyes – pure bliss. He pulls her body hard against his, holding her in the right position.

'Greg,' she sighs, 'come inside me.'

He does.

When she leaves, he makes himself beans on toast. He watches MTV. He has a shower. He reads through the newest issue of the _New England Journal of Medicine_. Not one of these activities keeps him occupied for a sufficient amount of time. Not one of these activities is enough of a distraction. He feels like a coiled spring – tightly wound, as if he has excess energy to burn. He walks from room to room, down the hall and back, around the sofa ten times – as fast as his leg will carry him. He walks to the kitchen, lifts the phone. He considers calling her. He considers visiting her. He places the phone back on the receiver. Instead – he numbs his body with Vicodin and drifts into a restless sleep.


	13. XIII Piano

XIII – Piano

The more often they see each other, the more they _need_ to see each other. They take advantage of every night Wilson is away from House's place. They laze around drinking and talking about everything and nothing. In the back of his mind he knows that Wilson could come home unexpectedly at any moment, and while there is always the option of going back to her place, there is much less distance to his place from the hospital. They often find themselves needing to get to a private place as soon as possible. He makes sure the door is locked and is comforted by the fact that Wilson would have to get through two deadlocks before entering the room – giving her plenty of time to hide in his bedroom. He watches her as she moves. Her legs appear distorted – strangely long in her black stilettos. Her eyes, dark and knowing and perfectly almond shaped. Her lips – pillowy, swollen, and painted deep claret. Her skin, flawless – glowing deathly white in the eerie light from the kitchen. She notices her photograph hanging on the wall, next to the window beside the piano. She smiles to herself. She eyes the piano. Ever since she had first seen it, she had been dying to ask him to play for her. She knew he would be shy about it, so she has been waiting impatiently. She is incredibly impatient – like a child. It had just never worn off.

She sees something she hasn't noticed before. She peers into a cage.

'What's in here?' she asks.

He rolls his eyes to the ceiling. _God. Here we go._

'Oh, you have a pet rat?' She seems delighted. He is confused.

'Yeah. Long story.'

'Does he bite?'

'Nah…yeah, sometimes.'

'What's his name?'

'Steve McQueen.'

She laughs out loud. He smiles.

'Why aren't you screaming and jumping up on the table?' he asks.

'I had pet rats when I was a kid.'

He watches her watching the rat. He thinks about what she must have been like as a child.

'I want to ask you a question,' he says.

She looks back at him.

'You can ask me anything,' she says.

'Anything?'

'Anything.'

She makes her way back to the sofa, sitting beside him.

'What are your parents like?' he asks.

She thinks for a second.

'Ordinary, I suppose. Dad is a high school science teacher, mom, a housewife. I wouldn't say they are unhappily married, but I wouldn't say they are happily married either.'

He nods. 'What about you, how were they with you?'

'Great,' she says, 'both of them were committed, one hundred percent dedicated parents.'

'Do you have any siblings?' he asks.

'Yeah, a younger sister and a younger brother.'

'You were the first born?'

'Yeah,' she says, 'what about you?'

'No. Only child,' he says quietly.

He got used to being alone from an early age. Now, it is so ingrained, so natural, that her recent recurrent presence in his home seems bazaar – incongruent. He looks down at his empty glass. Her eyes move over his face – his sad expression.

She pours them each a new drink. She smiles and nods towards the piano.

'Play something for me,' she says.

He says nothing.

'Please,' she says, her smile widening.

'What do you want me to play?' he asks.

She is excited. He will do it.

'I want you to play your favourite piece.'

He takes another sip of his drink and makes his way to the piano. She follows. He sits on the bench and sorts through the sheet music until he finds a piece by Dvorak. He starts to play. She realizes she is holding her breath. He feels her hand resting on his shoulder. The notes blend perfectly– the dulcet melody swells and softens. The sound reverberates through her body. It is so beautiful that she wants to cry and laugh at the same time. She simultaneously envies and admires him. Her heart races. She has never been more aroused in her life. The melody is ending. She seats herself to the left of him on the bench. Her hand moves to his good thigh, and he feels the warmth of it though his slacks. Slowly, she moves her hand higher. He misses a note, and subsequently plays a wrong note, before recovering to finish perfectly. He turns to meet her gaze.

'You're so fucking sexy,' she says with strong sincerity.

She takes his face in her hands and kisses him in appreciation.

'Teach me to play the opening bar,' she says.

He regards her for a moment before raising his right hand back to the keys.

'Well, the right hand melody is actually pretty simple to start out.'

He begins to play slowly. She parts her legs slightly, and places his free hand on her right knee. She uses her own hand to guide his under her skirt and up over her inner thigh. He knows the piece so well that he is able to divide his attention between the two tasks, continuing to play the melody whist simultaneously stroking her thigh, all the while, keeping his gaze locked with hers. He plays the first bar twice.

'So how does this lesson work?' he asks, 'do you wanna try it now?'

She shakes her head. She pulls him close – kisses him, again and again. He closes his eyes to the world, opens his mouth against hers. She breaks the kiss with a heavy sigh – faces the piano.

'Keep playing,' she instructs.

His right hand returns to the piano, his left hand stays on her thigh. The melody starts again. She watches his hand disappear under her skirt. His hand – moving higher – his fingers delving beneath lace – stroking, flicking, teasing. Her hand on his, urging him to push his fingers harder against her. His fingers make similar movements both on her and on the piano. He sees her as a delicate instrument – he plays her as he plays the piano – with dedication and tenderness. She reaches into his lap – touches him though fabric. She unbuckles, unbuttons, unzips. Skin against skin. She traces and strokes and grips. He swallows hard.

'I guess this means you don't want me to show you the cords?' he says with a smile.

'No. I want you inside me, _now_,' she says breathlessly, standing in front of him.

She bends, leaning on the piano for support. He stands behind her – sends his hands up her body, collecting the folds of her skirt. He slides her underwear down. She stands bare, waiting for him. Now frantic and impatient to be inside her, he grips her hips. He guides himself to her. Even with the slightest touch – the sensation of them connecting, the pleasure resonates throughout his body. He pushes in as deep as he can. They develop a rhythm – slow and steady, moving in perfect synchronisation. His hand returns to her front – his fingers stroke her clit and she is overwhelmed by an intense orgasm of internal muscle spasms. She gasps and thumps her hand on the keys, sounding a tune of odd notes. The pleasure is relentless. She cries out again and again. The feel of her tightening around him and trembling in his embrace makes him come. He spills into her. They slump forward, resting on the piano, breathing rapidly. He is still inside her.

'_Christ!_' she exclaims, 'that was the _best_ piano lesson I have ever had.'

He pulls out of her, rearranges his clothing and sits on the bench.

'That was the best piano lesson I've ever given.'

'I hope you'll give me many more,' she says, smiling.

Later, when she is gone, he reflects on a phone call he had received from his mother earlier in the day. His father has had a heart attack. He is not sure how he feels about this news. He thinks about what Lee had said about her parents. _Committed,_ _one hundred percent dedicated._ At first he had thought that she must be well adjusted. Now he thinks: _she likes me… she can't be well adjusted_.


	14. XIV Watch

XIV - Watch

He arrives home, throws his helmet on the sofa, keys on the side table, goes to the fridge. Wilson is in the kitchen.

'Look at that,' Wilson says, pointing at the telephone on the bench, 'see the red light blinking? That means there are messages for you.'

House ignores this comment – reaches for a beer.

'Some of those messages are two days old…' Wilson continues.

House shuts the fridge and turns from Wilson, entering the living room and sitting on the sofa.

'I'm guessing they are from your mother,' Wilson says.

House finally looks at his friend. Wilson is relived to have his attention. He continues his spiel.

'She's called three times this afternoon, I spoke to her the third time.'

House clenches his jaw.

'She told me about your dad.'

Silence.

'She wants you to call her. Will you do that?'

House places his beer on the coffee table. 'Eventually.'

'You can't just pretend he doesn't exist,' Wilson says, 'I don't think the _out of sight, out of mind_ philosophy is going to work in this instance.'

House takes his helmet from beside him and stands. He eyes Wilson as he makes his way to the door, collecting his keys from the side table. Wilson watches, palms out – a questioning expression.

'Where are you going?' Wilson asks.

'Out.'

'Out where? You just got home.'

'You don't need to know where.'

She opens the door to him, smiling. He smiles in return. No words – what they feel is unspoken.

He is comfortable in her bedroom. More so then in his own bedroom, he thinks.

She loves undressing him. She does it slowly, religiously. For some reason, her favourite items to remove are his belt and his watch. She thinks she must like removing his belt because of the sexual symbolism. She slips it through the loops of his jeans and discards it on the floor. She's not sure why she enjoys removing his watch. It's old fashioned, with a brown leather band and a round face. At first she had wanted to buy him a big chunky, silver, masculine watch to replace it. She thought it would be sexy, but now she loves this one. It is his, he chose it and he likes it. She turns his arm over and loosens the small silver buckle at his wrist. She laughs to herself.

'What?' he asks.

'You're going to think I'm strange, but I get off on removing your watch.'

'That is strange.'

He tries to kiss her and she grins, playfully turning her head away from him. Tonight, she wants to wait until they are completely naked. The anticipation makes her heart race. He tries again and their lips brush as she deflects his attempt by turning her head and pushing his unbuttoned shirt off his shoulders. The more she resists, the more he wants it.

'Let me kiss you,' he says.

'Not yet.'

This annoys him. It reminds him of the prostitute. It was the kissing he missed most when Stacy left because it was the only thing he couldn't do with the prostitute. It was forbidden. Lee's kiss was the first since Stacy's, and the best he could remember, ever. She made a sport of it, put effort into every kiss she gave him. She has kissed him a thousand different ways already. Her lips are moist and tender and he wants to crush his against hers, now more then ever.

When they are naked she lies back on the bed and waits for him. His hands move over her thighs, slowly, gently pushing them to the mattress. He lowers himself between them and begins moving slowly, his penis only just pressing against her entrance. He shuts his eyes tightly and clenches his teeth as he tries to postpone the pleasure. He moves further up her body and his shaft rubs her clitoris, causing her to gasp and clutch his arms. His muscles are fully flexed as he holds himself above her. Strong arms. Finally, he lowers himself completely and presses into her. He enters her easily, releasing a stifled moan. It is so different from the encounter with the prostitute. Lee is always wet and swollen with arousal for him. He is still for a moment, grateful. She lifts his head from beside her shoulder and moves his face to hers. Finally they kiss: soft, wet, deep. His body hums. He begins to move on her, in her. _Slowly_, he tells himself, _slowly_. His body moves against hers – each thrust is precise. His arm muscles are taxed again as he lifts his chest from hers to watch her face. She sighs gently. Her eyes are shut tightly – her face screwed into an expression of pure pleasure. He lowers his body again and continues to move in the same slow steady rhythm. He turns his head to one side in order to catch his breath and notices their reflection in the mirror beside her bed. He groans loudly. They are completely naked and connected. Her thighs are pressed against his hips, her legs are parted around him. He watches his steady rhythm, moving up, and into her. The sight is so graphic and erotic that he comes suddenly, grunting and swearing. After a few seconds he pulls out of her and rolls onto his back. He was so distracted by the eroticism of the encounter that he has only just realised something.

'You didn't come did you?' he asks her.

'No,' she says nonchalantly, almost wistfully.

He is taken aback.

'It's no big deal,' she says, rolling to face him, 'the majority of women don't frequently orgasm with full penetration. But that doesn't mean we don't like it. I was close.'

The surprised expression remains on his face.

'How can you be surprised?' she asks, 'you're a doctor… surely you would have had to reassure numerous unsatisfied housewives.'

'I've just never experienced it myself,' he says.

She raises her eyebrows, half smiling.

'What, are you insinuating that all of the women I've been with were faking?'

'Oh, no way honey. But if you think they came _every time_… '

He appears to be horrified. She giggles.

'Oh, they were just being polite,' she says.

'And you're obviously not so concerned with manners.'

'I don't believe in faking it. I think that's rude. I'm not going to lie to you. Every time you hear me come it will be for real.'

He is somewhat comforted by the thought, yet simultaneously distracted by thoughts of Stacy. She was always screaming. Lee kisses him.

'So, you've _never_ faked it?' he asks.

'Oh yeah, I've had some real duds. But I'm not going to do that with you.'

'Don't think about it as a negative thing,' she adds, 'it's just a fact of life. Why the female body was designed like this we will never know… anyway it's not all about the big O. I love having you inside me,' she continues, placing a line of kisses along his jaw, 'and I intend to have you inside me many more times…'

He is still distracted. He is thinking about the prostitute's orgasm. _Oh yes, yes,_ she had screamed and her fingernails had dug into his back – so obviously fake, but he knew that even then. He thinks about the orgasms he has witnessed with Lee: her soft sighs, silent gasping, her short quiet moans of satisfaction. There had been over the top vocalization with the prostitute, but he didn't _feel_ it. She was supposed to be a pro and yet she didn't even attempt to fake the muscle spasms. He feels as if the hooker ripped him off. But that doesn't matter now.

Lee reaches for his navy blue button down shirt and pulls it on. She slides off the bed and he looks over at her.

'Stay there,' she commands.

She is practically swimming in his shirt. She grins at him. Her red hair is tousled and her cheeks are flushed. She disappears through the doorway, leaving him to his thoughts. He grins to himself. She had really only confirmed his suspicions. She was right, he was a doctor and he was well aware of the stats, but Stacy had been so convincing. She returns with two glasses - hands one to him. She sits on the bed, pulling her knees under her. The air in the room is cold. She buttons his shirt.

'What is it?' he asks, referring to the drink.

'Vodka and lemonade,' she replies.

He raises an eyebrow mockingly before taking a sip.

'I know. I didn't have anything else to mix it with,' she says apologetically.

'So…how close were you?' he asks after a few seconds.

She rolls her eyes and grins. 'Very close,' she says.

'What is it like?' he asks.

'What, to have a penis inside you?'

He grins and nods.

'It depends,' she replies, 'strange - gorgeously so of course. Foreign…but nice. Sometimes – if you're not into it, it can just feel uncomfortable. I think that's another reason why some women fake it. They just want it over and done with.'

The surprised expression has returned to his face. At the same time, he admires her honesty. He had never had such candid conversations with Stacy. She is teaching him and he appreciates it.

'Anyway,' she says, 'I was very close so you were definitely on the right track…'

'So if I could have held out a little longer…'

'It's not all about achieving synchronized orgasms,' she interrupts, 'let's just say you owe me one.'

They are silent for a minute. She grins at him, looking up from her glass.

'You like watching don't you.' she says.

'What?'

'Us…in the mirror.'

He grins coyly – looks down momentarily. He takes another sip of his drink. He seems embarrassed. She places her drink on the bedside table before taking his and doing the same. She moves closer to him.

'I do too,' she says kissing him, 'I loved watching you moving on me.'

He is suddenly overwhelmed with arousal and pulls her against his body. He is kissing her demandingly and unbuttoning his shirt at her chest. He sends his hand under the material to touch her, feeling her heart beating under her left breast. She strokes his cock, feeling him growing hard in her hand. He moans and she removes her hand, searching for his. Knowing he is right handed, she takes his right hand and curls his own fingers around his shaft.

'I want you to show me how you do it when I'm not here,' she says.

'You want me to jerk off?' He is shocked.

'Please…' she says, her voice husky.

He is apprehensive. This is private. But he complies. Sitting against the bed head, he starts stroking himself, his long fingers cupping and pumping. He is rough with himself, gripping more firmly then she does – tugging. She takes note. She is biting her bottom lip furiously. He watches her watching him masturbate. He is aroused by her arousal at watching him. He thinks he will come sooner then he usually does.

'Do you think about me?' she asks, almost panting.

'All the time,' he mutters. Sad eyes. It is an expression of defeat.

He knows she has meant to ask _do you think about me when you masturbate_? but he has replied that he thinks about her _always_, and she knows this. His hand leaves his penis and he cups his balls momentarily before continuing to stroke himself, watching her constantly. She gasps and covers her mouth. Her body tingles. She realises how wet she is. She wants to see him make himself come, but she is overwhelmed with the desire to involve herself.

'Forget it,' she says, pressing herself against him and kissing him quickly, 'fuck me.'

She discards his unbuttoned shirt and rolls onto her stomach, raising herself on her elbows and lifting her ass for him. He kneels behind her, frantic, holding her hips and pushing his cock into her. The angle allows for deep penetration and she comes almost immediately, her muscles clenching around him as he thrusts into her. She releases a deep groan and the sound makes him climax, gripping her and thrusting into her one last time.

'That was real,' she says, as they are lying beside one another.

'I know,' he says, kissing her.

'And it was _unbelievable_,' she adds, closing her eyes.

* * *

I appreciate your feedback. Anonymous reviewers now welcome (I didn't realise it was set not to accept unsigned reviews) 


	15. XV Secret

XV – Secret

They space it out. They don't see each other every day or every night. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. He notices that he doesn't sleep so well when she isn't lying beside him. He tells himself it is because they stay up all night when they are together, exhausting themselves. But this doesn't explain why he cannot sleep when she leaves after sex. They go out in public together for the first time. _Together_, together. As a joke, she takes him to McDonalds for dinner. Standing in line, he assumes his usual posture – a slight incline, his cane supporting his weight. He analyses the individuals who compose the crowd. He feels as if everyone in this pseudo-restaurant is staring at the two of them – judging. There is a pair of large women beside them in line, interchangeably whispering and glancing at him. He stares back at them in thought.

'What do you want?' Lee asks him.

He doesn't reply.

'Greg?' She looks at him.

He is still staring at the women. She recognises his expression – contemplation.

'These people think I'm your father!' he whispers, leaning down to her.

'What?' She follows his line of sight.

He continues to stare at the women. Without warning, she reaches up, hooks her arm around his neck, and pulls him into a graphically enthusiastic kiss. There are muffled laughs and one of the large women says 'Oh my god!' quietly.

She releases him from her grasp. 'Not anymore!' she says with a smile.

They sit on the hard plastic furniture, surrounded by intense primary colours and loud families. They joke and laugh and share each other's food like a pair of teenagers. Fitting, he thinks, considering the venue. He loves the fact that she has brought him here. She knew the simplicity and the juvenility of it would appeal to him.

They had taken his car, thinking that otherwise Wilson would have noticed that both his bike and car were present, and yet he was absent. She had parked her car in another street. He lets her drive the Corvette. He has never let anyone drive the Corvette. Not even Wilson.

'I love night time,' she says, as they pull up at a set of lights, 'daytime is too real, too mundane. I think everything is more beautiful at night.'

She drops her head back and looks up at the stars.

'I always imagine that's how a bug would feel,' she says.

He raises his eyebrows.

'You know how kids put them in ice-cream buckets and punch tiny holes in the lid for air.'

He watches her.

'When I was a kid, my parents owned a beach house, and whenever we could, we'd go down to the beach at night and just lie there, staring at the stars for hours. It's like nothing else in the world. It was always cold down there, even in the middle of summer, and because there were no nearby buildings, it was so dark and the sky was so clear. The sand was always cold and soft.'

She looks at him again. 'I'd do that every night of my life if I could.'

He feels the urge to kiss her, but the light turns green. She shifts the car into first gear and they coast through the intersection.

'Aren't you going to invite me inside?' she says, when they arrive back at his place.

'Wilson's inside,' he whispers.

She lowers her voice, 'oh please, I'll make it worth your while.' She grins, slipping her arm under his jacket, around his waist.

'I know you will,' he smiles.

She kisses him. He presses his fingers to her lips as he opens the door, 'Shhh.'

He holds her hand as he leads her past the couch where Wilson sleeps soundly. He shuts the door quietly when they are in the bedroom.

'You don't want him to know about me. Am I your secret sex?' she teases.

'I don't want him to know, because he won't leave it alone,' he says, unzipping her dress and helping it flutter to the floor.

He pulls his t-shirt over his head.

'So no screaming in ecstasy,' he jokes.

She reaches for him. Once again their bodies are in full contact. Bellies pressed flush against one another, lips and tongues connecting and hands exploring. Her hands journey south, stopping to unbuckle his belt and pull it through the belt loops, before continuing lower to find him hard and swollen to full size. He skillfully removes her bra and pushes her back rather roughly against the bed. She parts her legs to accommodate as he moves to lower his full weight on top of her. Staring down at her, he gently lifts his thumb and touches it to her full pout. Her lips are red and swollen from his kisses.

He moves down her body, hands before lips. He rids her of the final item of clothing and she moans softly and arches her back as he licks her briefly, getting her wet and ready. He kneels in front of her on the bed – unzips his fly and pulls his jeans and boxers down enough to expose his erection and he is back on top of her again. She spreads for him, feels his bare penis rubbing against her bare thigh as he gets into position. He takes his swollen cock in his hand and teases her entrance. She moans loudly and he gently clamps his free hand over her mouth. He may be handicapped standing vertical, but the bed is an even playing field. He guides the head of his penis to her clit now and she clutches his arms and sinks her teeth into the palm of his hand.

'Shhh?' He whispers questioningly.

She nods and he removes his hand. He persists with the teasing and she groans impatiently and moves her hands to try and guide him into her. He grasps her wrists and forcefully holds her hands above her head. She is so small in comparison to him, that he is able to hold both of her hands in place with one of his, while the other holds his erection, as he continues to tease her – rubbing his hard cock over her clit and causing her to bite her lip in an attempt not to cry out.

His forcefulness has only made her more determined and she attempts to grind against him. Finally he gives in and penetrates her, releasing a muffled groan. She sighs in relief and he continues to hold her hands in place as he begins moving. His other hand, now free, moves to her hands and their fingers tangle. She gasps silently, squeezing his hands as she comes. He frees her hands and she moves them to his ass, pulling him in deeper, enjoying the final seconds of her orgasm as he continues to thrust. She feels the vibrations against her neck as he groans whilst kissing her there as his orgasm peaks.

'I suppose I should leave now, before he wakes in the morning,' she says later, as they lay together, her body locked into place perfectly with his.

She had never expected him to hold her. She was sure he wasn't the type, but he almost always does. She suspects that he looks forward to it. He holds her so possessively that she is afraid to move and spoil the shape they have made. She feels his breath on her neck as he speaks.

'No. You can just stay in here. I'll lock the door and you can stay in my room for ever.' He hadn't intended to say this aloud. His brain has failed its editing job once again. She giggles.

He wakes her in the morning, his whiskers scratching her thighs as he kisses them. She blinks and peers at him.

'Well, good morning!' she says, her voice crackling.

He offers her a naughty grin.

'You're a horny bastard in the morning aren't you?'

He shrugs. 'I wake up, there's a naked girl in my bed, I'm going to take advantage of this situation.'

She laughs quietly.

'I think the other doctors would be most grateful to you, for sending me off to work in a good mood,' he continues, 'besides, Wilson's still outside, we have to find some way to kill the time until he leaves.'

'That's fine by me,' she says as he moves up her body to kiss her lips, 'but no screaming in ecstasy,' she jokes, repeating his line from the previous night.

Her arms encircle him lazily -fingers of one hand absently tracing patterns on his back, fingers of the other curling into the hair at the nape of his neck. Just as she is imagining that she couldn't possibly feel more relaxed, his bedroom door opens abruptly.

'House I…' Wilson has seen them.

'Oh….oh my god!' Wilson exclaims, eyes wide, mouth agape.

Lee gasps. Wilson turns abruptly, and they hear a sickening thud as he smacks his face on the doorframe.

'Shit!' he exclaims, clamping his hand over his bleeding nose and exiting the room quickly.

Lee sits beside House now. After a few seconds she says, 'you'd better go and see if he's ok.'

House rolls off the bed awkwardly and pulls his pyjama pants on. He finds Wilson in the bathroom, attempting to stem the bleeding with toilet paper.

'Did you break anything?' House asks.

Wilson can hardly stand to look at his friend.

'I…I don't know, it hurts like hell,' he says, shaken.

House puts the seat down on the toilet and motions for Wilson to sit.

'Tilt your head back,' he says.

Wilson complies. House pushes his hand aside to inspect his nose.

'Yep, it's broken. That's what you get when you don't knock,' House says gruffly.

'I…I had no idea…why didn't you…who is she, is she a hooker?'

House sighs, 'no.'

'She's not a hooker? Who is she then?'

'She works at the hospital,' House says hesitantly.

He feels like this is something he would hear coming from Wilson's mouth. Despite the intense pain, Wilson's mind is whirring as he tries to understand.

'Oh my god! Oh. My. God! It's the redhead…the one from the lift…doctor…doctor…' he snaps his fingers.

'Emerson. Lee Emerson,' House says.

'Shit! Why didn't you _tell_ me?'

'I was trying to avoid this type of interrogation. Look, we're only sleeping together. It's _just_ sex, so keep your mouth shut.'

Wilson stares forward. Heis a ridiculous sight. His mouth is agape, there is toilet tissue stuffed up each of his nostrils and blood splattered all over his perfectly pressed shirt.

'You get sex in the morning?' Wilson says after a moment's silence, 'Julie never…well in the end we never…'

House interrupts him, 'want a couple of Vicodin?'

Wilson nods. House moves to the sink, opening the mirrored medicine cabinet. He removes a new bottle of Vicodin and tosses it to Wilson.

Silence.

'What's she like?' Wilson whispers, interrupting the silence.

'What, seeing it isn't enough? You want a detailed commentary too,' House spits.

Wilson's embarrassment returns. He drops his head, shaking two Vicodin into the palm of his hand.

'Sorry. I'm recently separated - both of us have been going through a considerable dry spell, I'm just glad one of us is getting laid.'

Wilson swallows the pills and House leans on the sink, regarding him. A slight smile begins in the corner of his mouth as he realises the humour in the situation.

'You have no idea…' House says quietly, throwing his friend a scrap.

Wilson's head lifts and his eyes widen.

'You know what they say about redheads?' House continues.

Wilson nods eagerly.

'It's true.'

'Oh man…' Wilson says enviously.

'Sorry,' she says later, when he rejoins her in the bedroom, 'I shouldn't have insisted on staying.'

He shakes his head, 'no, it's alright. It was bound to come out eventually.'

She recalls theexpression on Wilson's face and begins giggling. He looks at her, smirking. They both laugh loudly now.

* * *

Forgot to say this last time – thanks to samanthaon for kindly drawing my attention to the fact that I was unable to accept unsigned reviews! 


	16. XVI Nurse

Like I said, I have included parts from various episodes in the first and second season, and they are not in the correct order - so just in case it seems confusing, the following chapter is set after the events in 'Detox.'

XVI – Nurse

In the morning light  
Won't you come down from the ceiling  
Won't you stay the night  
Baby won't you stay the night

-

Sunshine - Regina Spektor

He is alone. Wilson has finally moved into a hotel following the broken nose debacle, and Lee has been away at a conference in Boston for two weeks. He sits slumped in his favourite leather recliner, reflecting on the day. He had taken his first dose of Vicodin in two weeks and now his brain is idling in a blissful haze. He lifts his bruised, taped hand to his lip. The swelling has gone down, and he is left with a cut that is only just beginning to heal. He takes another sip of his drink before placing it back on the coffee table. The ice jingles in the glass. The red light on his telephone is blinking madly. Wilson has not been around to answer his calls and so the screen has progressed from displaying the number 5, to the number 8, and now displays the number 10. There is a knock at the door. He sighs heavily, but he pushes himself out of the chair and makes his way to the door, because he has an inkling about who will be on the other side. He opens it. Sure enough, it is her. She smiles at him and enters, shutting the door behind her. She scans the room nervously.

'Is there anyone here?' she demands, peering into the kitchen.

She wears a long coat and holds it close to her body.

'No, why?' he asks curiously as he peers into the kitchen after her.

She relaxes slightly and opens her coat to reveal a fake nurse's outfit. His eyes widen and his jaw drops. She wears a tiny white dress – so tight, it appears as if the buttons up the front will burst the next time she inhales. It is so short that it barely covers her ass, and she wears stockings and suspenders that are visible well below the hem. The first few top buttons are open, so that her red lace push-up bra is almost completely visible, her perfectly pert, round breasts heave as she breathes. She wears dangerously high stilettos and a stethoscope around her neck.

'Because I heard you weren't feeling well, so I just had to drop by and check up on you,' she says forcing a sexy voice.

'No way!' he exclaims with glee, 'are you serious?'

She removes her coat completely and hangs it on the rack, before moving to stand in front of him. She places her hand on his chin, tilting his head to inspect his split lip.

'Yes, but if you ever tell anyone about this, I'll have to kill you.'

'I have a feeling I would die smiling,' he grins.

'Oh, that's right, I forgot,' he says clicking his fingers, 'Wilson _is_ here… he just went out to his car to get something.'

'You'd better be joking,' she says, taking his hand, pulling him towards his bedroom, 'there's no way he's getting an encore.'

She nudges him back on the bed. He lies – staring in awe, as she crawls across the bed and slowly straddles him, being sure not to make contact with his leg.

'How is he?' she asks, slipping out of character.

'Why, is Dr Wilson going to get a visit from nurse naughty as well?'

'No, I'm your nurse Dr House.'

He grins at her. He cannot believe his luck.

'He's fine,' he says, 'although he is reluctant to tell the story of how he broke his nose.'

She laughs and shifts slightly in his lap as she settles. He is already hard. She leans forward so that her breasts are in his line of sight, the stethoscope resting in her cleavage.

'So that's where my stethoscope got to,' he says, lifting it slightly.

She has become familiar with his slight lisp and notes it as he says 'stethoscope.' She thinks it is sexy. She nods, taking it from around her neck, whilst simultaneously unbuttoning his shirt. She puts the stethoscope in her ears and moves the end over his t-shirt, listening to his heart. He watches her, grinning in amusement.

'Hmm, ok… let's see if we can't get it to beat a little faster,' she says.

She takes the stethoscope out of her ears, letting it rest around her neck. She inspects his lip once again.

'So, tell me what happened.'

'I grabbed Cuddy's ass and she punched me,' he shrugs.

She raises an eyebrow.

'Long story. This dad thought I was trying to kill his son,' he admits, 'long story short,' he points to his lip.

'He punched you?' she asks.

He nods.

She pouts, and leans in to gently kiss the other side of his mouth.

'And this?' she asks, lifting his purple, taped hand.

'Traded it for ten minutes of relief from my leg.'

'You did that to yourself?' she asks in disbelief, 'is it broken?'

'Fractured.'

'Want me to kiss it better?' she lifts it to her mouth and kisses it gently twice, staring into his bright blue eyes.

'Tell me where else it hurts,' she whispers, leaning forward, her breath on his neck.

His hand moves to her thigh and he starts toying with the lace of her stocking and her suspenders.

She speaks into his ear, nipping at his earlobe, 'here's a tip…use your imagination.'

'Umm…' he says lazily, his voice deep, 'all over.'

She rolls her eyes. 'You've gotta give me some place to start. How 'bout here?' she asks, tilting his head back and brushing her lips over the underside of his chin, before moving down lower to nip at his neck.

'Mmm hmm,' he moans.

'Well then, if you're not going to use your imagination, I guess I'll just have to use mine.'

She pushes his t-shirt up in order to access his bare chest. She moves slowly down his body, placing a trail of wet, sucking kisses over his skin. Her long hair – hanging loose, as soft as a whisper, tickles his chest hairs, leaving goose bumps.

'So, I heard you've been making inappropriate sexual comments to some of the nurses,' she says.

He shudders as she makes her way lower – her tongue flicking over his navel.

'And I'm feeling a little left out,' she looks at him – pretends to pout again.

'Oh god…you're my favourite nurse ever.'

He hears the familiar clink of his belt buckle. She notices that his breathing rate has increased in anticipation. At this, she decides to tease him a little longer. She sits up, grinning, while her fingers play with the trail of hair disappearing under his jeans. She unzips his fly and lets her index finger slip under the elastic of his boxers to tease his pubic hair, causing him to jerk involuntarily. She kneels above him.

'Come on, I wanna hear some of these comments.'

'Alright then nurse,' he says as his good hand slides up the inside of her thigh to discover that the material of her underwear is soaked, 'you're going to need a full body examination, and I must warn you, it will involve probing.'

He carefully sends his left hand up her skirt to assist his other hand in tugging her panties down to her knees.

She giggles. 'Will it hurt?'

He sends two fingers back up her skirt, between her legs to discover just how wet and swollen she is. 'You'll feel a _prick_, you might cry out…' he says, grinning.

'_Oh, good_,' she moans, as his fingers trace her entrance.

He teases her clit with his thumb before sliding his index finger inside her. She spreads her legs wider and sinks down on his finger. She prefers to have two of his fingers inside her. It feels more like his cock this way.

'Two,' she mutters.

'Huh?' he grunts questioningly.

'Use two fingers,' she says breathlessly.

He pushes her skirt up, slides another finger inside her. While nothing compares to the throb of his swollen cock – thrust deep into her, the advantage this way, is that his fingers are multi-jointed. He is able to bend and press them in various ways. Now, he rubs them hard against _the_ particular area of tightly packed nerves on the frontal wall behind her pubic bone. He continues to work her clit with his thumb, whilst pressing hard – stroking this special area inside her. She comes within seconds, gasping, falling forward, gripping the bed head for support. He removes his fingers, wipes her wetness over her breasts, leans in to lick it off.

'Congratulations Dr House,' she says, 'you found my g-spot. You certainly _do_ know your anatomy.'

His eyes meet with hers as his tongue delves in the crevice of her cleavage.

'Do I get a prize for this discovery?' he asks, raising a brow.

'Sure you do.'

She discards her underwear and returns her head to his lap.

Now, he is half lying, half sitting propped up on his elbows. It is as if he cannot lie back and relax completely – his entire body is tense with anticipation. She regards his erection, straining against the thin material of his boxers. She lowers her head, stopping with her lips in line with his waistband.

He feels her breath on the skin below his belly button. Her fingers catch in the elastic at either side of his hips and she finally pulls his boxers and jeans out of the way. She cups her delicate hand around his stiff cock immediately.

'Hmmm...' a stifled moan escapes from him as she begins making slow steady stokes, twisting her wrist when she reaches the base of his penis.

After a few full strokes, she pauses her hand at the head of his penis, making teasing circles on the very tip with her thumb.

She looks up to find him glaring at her. His expression is somewhat serious, anticipatory. She knows what he is waiting for. She grins as she moves her lips to his cock.

'Tell me how you like it Dr House,' she purrs, her eyes locked with his.

Still gripping him firmly, she continues to stroke the lower part of his shaft as she opens her lips marginally and touches them to the head.

He gasps as he watches her tongue slide out and gently lick the head of his penis. She flicks her tongue over it lightly a few times before progressing to swirling her tongue around it. Knowing the head is the most sensitive part of the penis she continues swirling and flicking until he is close. He shudders and drops his head back, shutting his eyes tightly. She is on full alert, watching, listening and feeling for the signs of his orgasm. As soon as his body stiffens slightly and his exclamations become noticeably louder, she removes her mouth and hands. His eyes flick open and he flashes her a look of sheer disappointment.

'Don't worry,' she says, taking hold of him after a few more seconds, 'I'm only just getting started.'

She continues to stroke him, this time using both of her hands, one moving up and down the entire length of his shaft, and the other cupping his balls. He reaches down – pushes her hair out of the way so that he is able to watch as she takes him into her mouth. He groans at this, and his hands move to the back of her head, fingers catching in her hair. She works him slowly, moving him out of her mouth, and in again to touch the soft, very back of her throat. Once again, she detects the signs of his impending orgasm and removes him from her mouth, receiving an impatient groan.

'I promise I'll let you come eventually.' She smirks.

This time she moves his cock in and out of her mouth, using a combination of all of the techniques. When he is out, she flicks her tongue over the head and she can already taste his salty pre-ejaculate. When he is in, she moans, adding vibrations to the list of blissful sensations he is experiencing. By the fourth time she repeats this combination she feels his body stiffen again.

'Uh!'

She takes him back in her mouth and prepares herself as he comes. He grips her head gently, releasing another long groan.

'Ugh!'

She swallows as he spasms, and spills into her. His cum is salty and bitter and yet she likes it – she likes what the taste of it in her mouth signifies. His arms give way and he falls back on the bed.

'Was it worth the wait?' she asks, sitting up and grinning at the man who lies motionless in front of her, numb with pleasure.

'_Christ _you're good at that,' he says, breathlessly.

'Are you gonna stay tonight?' he asks later, as she slides off the bed. He tries to mask the air of hopefulness.

'No, I gotta go home and write up some case reports.'

She squeezes his shoulder and starts to make her way to the door.

'Hey, will you come out with me on Friday night?' he calls after her.

She stops and turns back to face him. His question astounds her. Apart from the one trip to McDonalds, they had seemed to have made a habit of not going out in public together.

'Ah, forget it,' he adds quickly, turning away from her and cringing.

It was moments like these that he revealed how fragile he truly was. She had seen it in his subtle expressions, or heard it in the tone of his voice. She knew it well enough, but every time it caught her off guard. After all, he put on a very convincing show.

She smiles. 'What, you think we can be all over each other, fucking like its going out of fashion, but a simple date is out of the question? What did you have in mind?'

'Wilson's got me going to dinner with him and his wife cos they're trying to reconcile, but he can't stand to be alone with her, and I can't stand to be alone with the two of them.'

She smiles. 'Yeah, sure.'

He nods once as she turns and leaves.

He glances at the phone beside his bed. He makes a commitment. He will call his mother when the phone displays the number 15.

He does not sleep.


	17. XVII Date

XVII - Date

On Friday night she arrives on his doorstep wearing a blue wrap dress with a low v-neck and silver stilettos. He pauses for a second, feeling mildly ridiculous, contemplating the vision of them standing side by side. Her – a luminous, beautiful young woman, him – a cantankerous old cripple leaning on his cane. The vision positively screams _midlife crisis_. The thought moves on when she reaches up and kisses him.

'You look hot,' he says – clearly aghast and lacking a better description.

'Thanks, you don't scrub up too badly yourself,' she says, eying him.

He is wearing a grey suit with a dark shirt and is struggling with a purple tie.

'I've been ordered to wear this,' he says, ripping the tie from around his neck rather aggressively.

'Here,' she says, smiling as she takes it from him.

She drapes it around her own neck in order to tie it.

'I wanted a fake one but Wilson made me get this,' he says.

She twists the wide side over the thin side twice before tucking it though the fold and creating an even knot.

'It's nice,' she says, adjusting it so that she is able to lift it over her head.

'Nice? The damn thing is purple.'

She smiles and reaches to lift his collar up. She lowers the tie over his head and pulls the underside in order to slide the knot up in line with his Adam's apple, before folding his collar back down.

'There. Gorgeous,' she says.

'How'd you learn to do that?' he asks, marvelling at the perfect knot she has made, in the mirror by the door.

Dr Gregory House is brilliant – a Renaissance man, but tie-knot-making was a skill that had somehow evaded him.

'I had to wear one to school,' she replies.

He raises his eyebrows. 'A private school girl huh?'

'Yep, all girls.'

'Oh my god, when we get bored tonight, you have to tell me all about the pillow fights in the dorms.'

'It wasn't a boarding school,' she says as they move towards the door.

'Ah, but I bet you've still got some great stories involving girl on girl action.'

'I'll make some up to humour you,' she says, descending the front steps.

'You'd do that for me?' he jokes.

'Whatever turns you on baby.' She casts him a smile.

At the restaurant, Julie and Wilson are already seated.

'We're half an hour late,' House murmurs as they approach the table, 'I was hoping she would have had a few glasses of wine. She's much more tolerable that way.'

Lee grins.

'House, nice of you to make it before the restaurant closes,' Julie says.

She is a slight blonde woman. Neat, prim.

'Ah, you know me, always fashionably late,' House replies unapologetically.

'Julie, this is Lee,' Wilson says, standing, gesturing.

Lee shakes hands with Julie. She and House sit.

'So, _Gregory_,' Julie says, making sure the annunciation of his name is obviously condescending, 'is Lee your _girlfriend_?' She eyes Lee distastefully.

Lee raises her eyebrows and begins to speak. 'Umm…'

'Yeah,' House says cheerfully, a self-satisfied grin breaking across his face.

Lee's mouth drops open. She turns to face House.

'She only understands basic concepts,' House says to her, before turning back to face Julie, 'we're going steady,' he says mockingly.

'I was just beginning to wonder how much you had paid this poor woman to accompany you tonight,' Julie says.

'Ha! Not nearly as much as you paid for your breasts,' House quips.

Lee bites her lip, attempting to hide her smile.

Wilson covers his face with his hands. 'Could you two just _try_ to remain civil for this evening?'

They make casual conversation – an obvious chore for House. Lee too struggles to raise new topics for discussion. When the two of them are alone, the conversation flows easily, but with Wilson and Julie present, it is as if they have been rudely imposed upon. They order, eat and watch as their plates are cleared.

'So really, what is the story with you two?' Julie asks.

'We're having an illicit affair, just constant _mind blowing_ sex,' House says.

Lee has just taken a sip of her drink. She sniggers, almost spraying red wine over Julie's pretty pink dress. She gulps down the mouthful before throwing her head back and laughing heartily at House's candid comment. Of course it was said in such a way that it could be interpreted as a joke, but the fact that it is entirely true makes the situation utterly hilarious. Lee turns to face House. He grins as her laughing subsides.

'Well, I see she has the same sick sense of humour,' Julie whispers to Wilson, 'they're just as bad as one another.'

Wilson raises his eyebrows. 'I'm going to see where that waiter went with our bill,' he says, standing and moving away from the table.

There is silence. Julie, Lee and House eye one another. Suddenly, House feels the warmth of Lee's hand on his thigh. He glances at her, and she grins as her hand moves higher. He shifts in his chair and clears his throat as her fingernails trace the stitching on the crotch of his slacks.

Julie lowers her eyes to Lee's cleavage. 'Where _did_ you get your dress from Lee, the cut is just _stunning_…' she says patronisingly.

Lee smiles, realising this. She couldn't care less however, as her attention is focused elsewhere. Under the table, she is subjecting him to a kind of wonderful torture.

'Ralph Lauren, Fred Segal?' Julie offers, listing off the bland, uninspired labels of her own preference.

Her comment is verging on sarcasm. She is trying to make some sort of point, her intent – malicious. The dress is perfectly acceptable, but obviously too daring for her taste. Julie seems as though she may be the sort of woman who is more comfortable in twin-set cashmere and strings of pearls.

'No actually, I prefer not to dress like a desperate housewife,' Lee says, with just the right amount of sting.

It is House's turn to laugh out loud now. Lee raises her eyebrow as if she has no idea why he is laughing, and yet a sly grin breaks in the corner of her mouth. It was brilliant. Julie had introduced the subtext, but Lee had managed to silence her with her own brand of _'oh-I-didn't-mean-anything-by-it,'_ insinuation, all the while giving House a good, thorough feel up, under the table. She had always been good at multi-tasking. She continues with her concealed activity – teasing and caressing House's cock through the material of his slacks until he cannot stand it for a moment longer. His fingers encircle her wrist as he removes her hand, thinking that it would be rather awkward to have to exit the restaurant in his current predicament.

'I think I'll make a visit to the lady's room,' Julie says hotly, leaving the table.

House makes a face as she turns away. Lee reaches for his head, pulling him close so that she is able whisper in his ear.

'I'm so horny,' she purrs.

'I can tell!' he whispers.

'Take me to your car and fuck me.'

'My god you have a dirty mouth.'

'You love it.'

'Yeah,' he laughs, 'I do.'

He notices Wilson approaching the table. 'We're gonna have to stay here a little longer,' he whispers to her, 'thanks to you, I have a raging hard on, and I'm not going to be able to walk out of this place for a while.'

She giggles.

Wilson sits down. 'Whispering sweet nothings?' he says.

'Sweet?' House replies, 'hardly!'

'It's all paid for,' Wilson says.

'Why Jimmy, how nice of you,' House says, grinning mischievously.

He had already arranged with Wilson to pay, in return for having to endure Julie's company.

'Where's Julie?' Wilson asks.

'In the bathroom, crying her eyes out,' House replies.

'What?' Wilson says.

'Nothing,' House says innocently, 'here she comes now.'

Julie returns to the table.

'We're going to stay a little longer and have some dessert, but you two run along,' House says, pulling one of his trademark faces.

'Alright, good night,' Wilson says, as he moves away from the table with Julie, who forces a smile.

Julie smacks Wilson's hand away as he attempts to touch her arm.

'No,' they can hear her saying quietly, 'I'm pissed off! I don't know why you insisted that we have dinner with them, we're supposed to be spending time together _alone_.'

Lee cringes, feeling sorry for Wilson as she watches this rather public argument. The couple disappear through the doorway. House and Lee order another bottle of wine and Lee drinks the majority of it. They continue to laugh, and joke about the evening until she says, 'how are things going under the table? Ready to walk out of here yet?'

He grins. 'Yeah.'

She is feeling light-headed – high. She has had too many glasses of wine, but is blissfully unconcerned. She tries to steady herself as she walks. She slips her arm around his.

'Hey, _I'm_ the cripple remember?' he jokes.

At the car, he walks to her door first, opening it for her.

She smiles, touching his face. 'Thanks hun.'

A few minutes into their journey, she reaches out and touches his knee. 'Are you going to pull over soon?' she asks.

'Why?'

'So we can have sex.'

'You're serious about the whole sex in the car thing?'

'Yeah, this car was made for it.'

He pulls over when he finds a deserted car park. She removes her panties and shoves them into her tiny silver clutch purse. She is in his lap before he even realises how aroused he is. His hands snake up the jersey material on her back as she leans in to kiss his face – his jaw, his cheek, above his lips, beside his lips, on his lips – leaving his skin a red mess of lipstick. Her bracelet jingles in his ear as she holds his face, gently, respectfully. She directs him to look her. Her pinkies rest under his jaw, her thumbs rest on his cheeks. Their eyes meet. She has seen darkness in his eyes before – something inexplicable, melancholic. She has also detected the red behind his eyes – anger. But when he looks at her, his eyen soften. Always. It gives her butterflies every time.

'Greg…' she says.

There is a pause. Her thumb scrapes his whiskers, moving against the grain. He finds himself anticipating her next words. What will she say?

'I want to take your photo.'

He is disappointed. But what would he expect her to say?

'What, right now?' he says, because a response is required.

She giggles, kisses him again. 'No, there are other things I want to do to you right now.'

They are silent again as the small space is filled with the muffled sounds of clumsy car sex – fumbling, unbuttoning, unzipping, hitching, wet kisses, soft moans, elbows bumping against hard surfaces.

She speaks again. 'Will you let me?'

'Huh?' he grunts absently. He is well and truly distracted by the proceedings. His erection is exposed and she has angled herself to take him.

'Photograph you…' she says.

He furrows his brow. Photograph. This is her request? She asks very little of him and yet he feels as if he would do anything for her. 'Yeah,' he says.

She smiles, and in the shortest moment, they are one again.

In order to make the position work for them, she does her usual trick, keeping her weight off his thighs. He releases a moan signifying defeat as he slumps against the seat, awash with pleasure, watching her writhe in his lap. She leans back, giving them a different angle of more shallow penetration. She grins her sex grin, and takes hold of his tie, using it to guide his face to hers. Their tongues meet and the sensation intensifies the exquisite buzz that he feels in his body. It is enough to push him to the brink. He comes suddenly, pulling her down hard against him, groaning at the curious mix of pleasure and pain. The sound and feel of him coming does it for her. She shudders as her climax hits.

She is back in her seat. He gives himself a moment. His leg throbs. He has never needed a post-coital Vicodin hit, at least not with her, but his leg had been jarred this time. He doesn't want her to see him have to take the pills now. He doesn't want her to feel bad, he doesn't want her to feel sorry, he doesn't want to turn her off, but he needs to – he has to drive. He pats his pockets, searching for the plastic cylinder.

'What are you looking for?' she asks.

'Ah…Vicodin.'

'Oh,' she says, reaching for her clutch purse, 'I've got them.'

After a few seconds of rummaging she produces the bottle. He is confused.

'You nearly left them on the table at the restaurant.'

His anxiety has eased. He takes the bottle from her. It is somewhat symbolic. He was concerned about what she would think, but she is the catalyst for his relief.

As they continue on their way home she casts him numerous glances, grinning and sometimes giggling.

'What?' he asks.

'Nothing,' she replies.

She giggles again.

'What?' he repeats, grinning.

'I bet Wilson and Julie won't be having sex like that tonight,' she says.

His grin widens. 'Nope, I think Wilson will be on the couch again.'

'Oh it's not funny,' she adds, reprimanding herself, 'the poor thing… she seems awful.'

At the front door, she hugs him as he struggles with his keys.

'I'm sleeping over,' she says, clutching him.

He grins back at her before returning to fiddle with the keys. He is momentarily aware of the feeling that this news has evoked. It is like a mild and enjoyable type of electric shock.

Leaning on each other for support, him for his leg, and her for the combined effects of too much alcohol swishing around in such a small body and dangerously high heals, they finally find their way into the bedroom. She stumbles as she trips on the rug, and they end up sitting on the edge of the bed. She pulls him against her warmly, wrapping her arms around him as completely as possible.

'Kiss me Greg,' she says, moving her mouth to his.

He can smell the wine on her breath. He kisses her.

'I love kissing you, even if you are a little scratchy,' she sighs, kissing him tenderly.

He repeats her words in his head. 'I love _kissing_ you.' There was just one word obstructing the golden sentiment. There always was. 'I love _touching_ you,' 'I love _watching_ you,' 'I love _teasing_ you.' He wonders how many partial sentiments could make a whole. He tells himself that he is just curious about her…what she is thinking…how she may try to restrain herself. He cannot admit that he actually cares what she thinks about him, how she feels about him.

'Thankyou,' she says.

'What for?'

'For being the object of my affection, for the blissful sex, for making me laugh…I hope you always make me laugh…'

She pauses and he wonders if she is going to say it.

'My head hurts,' she says.

He finds himself disappointed _again_.

'You're beautiful,' she says, placing her hand on his chest.

He laughs. 'And you're drunk!'

'Maybe, but there's no place I'd rather pass out then your bed.'

He pulls back from her, with the promise of return. He shrugs his jacket off. She falls backwards on the bed and he pulls his shoes off and lifts the purple tie over his head. He sits on the bed beside her to find her eyes closed and her chest rising and falling with her steady slow breathing. He smiles and moves her legs onto the bed so that she lies straight. He moves her hair out of her face, and after a moment he realises that he is still playing with it, feeling its softness, watching it fall through his fingers. He fiddles with the tiny buckles at her ankles and finally manages to remove her shoes. He marvels at how small they are before placing them in the corner of the room and changing into his pyjama pants and white t-shirt. With some difficulty, he manages to gently move her body, so as not to wake her, before lifting the blankets over her.

The red light blinking on the telephone beside his bed is stark in the black room. It is like a red eye – staring, accusing. 12.


	18. XVIII Disclosure

XVIII - Disclosure

She studies the photograph. She usually prefers black and white, but it was not even an option in this case. She had to capture the colour of his eyes, his intelligent blue eyes. She scans his idiosyncratic features, his pensive expression, his long nose, his brown stubble mottled with grey. It feels odd, as if she is actually staring at him, not at a photograph of him – and she has to smile. She can see the pain in his eyes. It is something that she often thinks about, never talks about. She wishes she could take it from him, take it _for_ him, or, at the very least, they could take it in shifts throughout the day. She thinks she will probably never say this, he doesn't want her pity, he wants her company. Quite often, she forgets about it completely. The way he makes her laugh, the things he says, the sex…everything else distracts away from it. When he talks, she often finds herself staring, awed. She loves the sound of his deep, soft American drawl. He tells her stories – medical stories, travel stories. His knowledge base is so great, she often feels inferior. History, geography, politics, physics, chemistry, music, art, literature… it seems as if he is well versed in everything, as if there is no subject for which he cannot impart knowledge.

She is enamoured, the fact that he is a cripple is irrelevant. But there are times when his pain is blazingly obvious and she often jolts in shock, as if she has only just noticed his disability. Times when he walks from the bed to the bathroom without his cane – a pronounced limp. Times when she catches him sitting, clutching his thigh, his expression tainted with agony. Times in the morning, when he takes a while to warm up, to get out of bed, to walk around. This is why she derives immense satisfaction from making him come. She loves to see it, hear it, feel it. His expression, the sounds he mutters involuntarily, his body tensing and relaxing, the release into her body – when for a brief but glorious moment, the pain takes a back seat and the pleasure is all consuming. He deserves it. She feels honoured that she is able to give him this small gift, but it is not enough. She feels as if it is not enough in return for what he has given her.

She hasn't seen him since the middle of the week, since she had taken this photograph. Today is Sunday. _Settle_, she had told herself, _just cool off a bit_. In the last few months, her life had taken a turn. Her focus had shifted. She hadn't been out with her usual group of friends in a while and as a consequence they had been harassing her.

'What's going on with you?' one of her girlfriends had asked, 'is there a guy?'

'I've just been really busy with work,' she had replied.

If she had said 'yes, there is a guy,' her friends would have insisted on meeting him and she didn't see that as an option. Besides, she hadn't ever been one to discuss this sort of thing. She had never been keen on girly discussions starting with questions such as 'so, do you _like_ him?' She had never been one to get worked up and cry at the drop of a hat. She had never been one to bitch and backstab and kiss cheeks in greeting. She remembers one of her uncles teasing her when she was a teenager, saying 'it's as if you're a man in a woman's body.' He had meant it as a complement, but she hadn't taken it that way. She is feminine, a woman through and through – just not an _ordinary_ woman. Sure, she likes to wear make-up and jewellery, she likes to shop, shoe sales and new season print fabrics make her giddy, but she imagines her artistic side may be responsible for this – her keen eye for beauty. She was different from a lot of the girls she had known in school. She was different from a lot of the women she had known at university. She hates bullshit – airs and graces, insincerity, duplicity. This is one of the reasons she is so fond of House. No bullshit.

She feels as if she is putting all of her eggs in one basket, but she cannot help it – it seems as though he provides her with everything she needs. She has tried to curtail the number of visits she makes to his place, but she always gives in to the urge. She wonders what she will do with the photograph. She won't frame it – it's not that type of picture, and anyway, her friends might see it. She has a bureau in her bedroom where she keeps things – things of sentimental value. Birthday cards, childhood photographs, favourite books. She will keep it in there. She knows she will look at it often.

She has things to do. She has papers to mark, progress notes to write, articles to read, housework and grocery shopping to do. Her apartment is a mess. Not dirty, just untidy. She has always had difficulty keeping her surroundings neat. She sees no point to it. She puts something away and before long, she needs to take it out again – what a waste of time. She sits in her study – checks her email, plays Solitaire on the computer. She makes aeroplanes from the scrap paper beside her and sails them across the room to the paper bin. Procrastination is one of her greatest skills. She sighs, raps her fingernails on the desk. She goes to her bedroom, changes into a pair of jeans and a tight sweater and takes her car keys from the kitchen table on her way out of the apartment.

Fifteen minutes later, she knocks on his front door.

'Wanna go somewhere and do something?' she asks as he lets her in.

'Well, seeing you in those jeans makes me wanna go to the bedroom and do all sorts of things.'

'Take me somewhere on your bike.'

'Where?'

'What do you really want to do?'

'Um… like I said, seeing you in those jeans makes me wanna…'

'Think of somewhere you haven't been or something you like doing but you haven't done in a long time,' she interrupts.

'Well I like doing the nasty, and we haven't done it since Wednesday… does that classify as a long time?'

She smiles. 'Serious.'

He thinks for a moment.

'Golf,' he says.

'Golf…ok, but I have to warn you, I've never played in my life, so I suck,' she says.

He laughs, 'right.'

'And I don't know anything about driving ranges or golf clubs or how you go about finding either of those things but I'm assuming you do?'

'Yeah.'

'Cool, let's go.'

He is anxious about this proposition. The last time he had played golf, he had the infarction. House is hardly a superstitious man, but for some reason, the thought of playing again is unsettling. He is somewhat distracted however, by her eagerness to ride his bike with him. He is aroused by her enthusiasm for something he loves. He thinks she looks amazing in her jeans, sitting on his bike. He only has one helmet and he gives it to her. She smiles and makes a comment about him being a proper gentleman. 'Don't worry,' she says 'your secret's safe with me.' She holds him tightly and he speeds to impress her. It works.

'Wow,' she says, when they reach the golf course and dismount his bike, 'that was great.'

'You've never been on a bike before?'

'Nope.'

'And you've never played golf?'

'Nope.'

'Woman, you've never lived…'

She smiles, 'I've got lots to learn from you.'

She thinks this comment will go down better than, _I've got lots of living to do with you_.

'Gets your blood pumping doesn't it? Makes me feel like having sex now…' she says.

He smiles, pocketing his keys. 'Well, there's a public toilet over there but we could risk being arrested for a George Michael-esque lewd act.'

She laughs, 'Oh, I dare you to do me in a public toilet.'

'Sorry, can't…got my gentlemanly status to keep up.'

When they are on the green, she tries to hit the ball and chops up the turf instead.

'You do suck,' he says, grinning.

'Yep,'

'Here,' he says putting his club aside and limping to stand close her.

She grins as he stands behind her and takes hold of her arms.

'Oh,' she giggles, 'this is a classic move. It's up there with the yawn-slash-arm-around-the-shoulders at the movie theatre. Thing is, you're already in… you've scored with me how many times now?'

'I've lost count,' he says.

He smiles, his body pressing against hers. They had been explicitly intimate on numerous occasions and yet the innocence of this gesture makes the moment electric. She feels as if they are bonding.

'You need to straighten this arm, and follow through steadily,' he says.

He moves her arms in demonstration.

'Ok.'

She tries again and actually hits the ball. She grins at him.

'Perfect,' he says.

'Oh I dunno, I think I'm going to need a few more _hands on_ demonstrations,' she replies, winking at him.

There is silence as he concentrates on making his next shot. They watch as the ball sails over the green valley, the grass cut short – like velvet.

'And every one of your shots are perfect, of course,' she says sincerely.

He smiles, pauses.

'This is what I was doing when it happened,' he says, suddenly.

'What?' she asks.

He lifts his club and gestures to his leg.

'Oh… is it weird?' she asks.

'No...' he says thoughtfully, 'I was playing with my ex at the time…'

She waits.

'It fell apart afterwards,' he says, wondering why the words are spilling from his mouth.

She never demands to know, although he is aware that she wants to know. He can see it in her expression, her keen interest whenever he discloses anything delicately personal. She lets him take his time - always. He appreciates this. He thinks this is why the words are spilling from his mouth now.

'Was it serious?'

'Yep,' he says, 'five years.'

She smiles sadly. 'What happened?'

He shakes his head, smiling uncomfortably.

'Never mind…' she says softly, touching his arm before turning from him and moving to the golf buggy in an attempt to lessen his discomfort, 'let's see where that ball of yours got to…'

They sit in the buggy under the shade of a large oak on the opposite side of the course.

'She wanted me to let them cut the leg off,' he says, spontaneously resurfacing the topic, 'I wanted them to restore the blood flow, see if it would heal on its own. She went behind my back and gave them permission to remove the muscle.'

'How could she do that?'

'After the first surgery, the bypass to restore the circulation, I asked to be put into a chemically induced coma so that I could sleep through the worst of the pain. She was my healthcare proxy while I was out. Legally, she was able to make decisions for me. She's a lawyer, never trust a lawyer.'

He is peeling the Velcro up on the back of his gloves and smoothing it back down repeatedly.

He sighs, backtracking on his comments, 'there was a chance I could have died, in fact I was dead – for a full minute….'

She jolts – horrified at the thought.

'…she thought she was doing the best thing…' he continues, '…maybe she was…I don't know…but I couldn't forgive her. I resented her.'

Lee watches and listens intently.

'Of course I didn't _really_ resent her…that was about five years ago. Last year she came back to Jersey…her husband was sick.'

'Oh, she married?'

'Yeah, and I slept with her.'

She raises her eyebrows.

'She was going to leave her husband for me…' he says.

'What happened?'

'It didn't feel right… it wasn't the same, it never could be.'

She rests her head on his shoulder. 'Shit,' she says.

Her comment is inelegant and perfunctory but somewhat profound. She has done this on purpose. She could have paraphrased, reflected _'wow, that must have been hard for you… how did you feel?'_ But she would have been in work mode. He deserves more than that. She is not going to pretend she knows how it felt. She is not going to pretend she knows what it was like, because she doesn't. She can only communicate that she is sorry that he had to feel whatever it was he felt, for whatever reason. He deserves her ignorant, genuine sympathy. Real human sympathy, not pretend psychologist sympathy. He smiles. He feels as if the whole experience has been cathartic. He is grateful to her.

'I'm hungry' he says as they return from the golf course.

He throws his keys onto the side table. He eyes the telephone on the coffee table as he passes the sofa. 14.

'And I'm horny,' she adds.

'Cool – our afternoon agenda includes sex and toasted cheese sandwiches.'

She grins, following him into the kitchen.

She sits on the bench and he hands her a beer from the fridge before continuing to rummage for cheese and butter.

He empties the remaining four slices of bread onto the cutting board.

'The beauty of stale bread is – it's dry and rough so it's almost as if it is already half toasted,' he jokes.

She watches him as he fiddles with the grill, stretching her leg out and teasing him with her toes as he bends over. She smiles as he carefully assembles the sandwiches and places them under the grill.

He fetches himself a beer from the fridge and removes the sandwiches a moment later.

'I don't mean to brag but I make great toasted cheese sandwiches,' he says, biting one and handing her the other.

'Mm, pretty good,' she says, tasting it.

She decides he is too far away from her. She places her sandwich on the bench and says 'come here.'

He smiles and moves to stand between her legs.

'Your ass looks great in those jeans,' she says, smiling as her hands slip into the back pockets of his jeans.

'I was thinking the same about you, except your ass turns more heads,' he says.

'I dunno, you might be surprised to know just how many women check you out – I've seen them,' she says.

He laughs.

'Don't you believe me?' she says, 'I'm serious, you're incredibly sexy. Why do you think I have so much trouble keeping my hands off of you?'

She kisses him, using her tongue to part his lips before gently touching it against his. It is one of her deep, erotic, open-mouthed kisses that give him an instant erection. His hands move under her sweater and his greasy cheese fingers splay over her ribs. Just as she feels the warm tingle of arousal setting in, he pulls back from her.

'Lee, I had sex with a hooker,' he confesses suddenly.

She regards him, wondering whether he will make any more revelations today. He cringes at the silence. She furrows her brow.

'When?' she asks calmly.

'Before I met you, after Stacy left.'

She sighs heavily and laughs a little, 'god, I thought you were trying to tell me that you had sex with one last night or something…'

He watches her, she doesn't seem to mind.

'Two times…' he continues, 'well technically, there was sex on the first occasion, but not on the second…' he says.

Her face displays a puzzled expression.

'Does that bother you?' he asks quietly, without looking at her.

She looks at the sandwich beside her, thinks.

'No,' she says decidedly, looking back at him, 'I can understand.'

She smiles faintly and he looks at the sandwich now. He takes two large steps back from her and leans on the bench in the middle of the kitchen. He bites his own sandwich and stares at the floor absently.

'What did you get her to do?' she asks nonchalantly.

He returns his gaze to her.

'I'm just interested…you're in control, you get to decide who goes where and who does what…I want to know what you asked for. I'm making notes.'

He feels uncomfortable. He didn't expect her to probe. He thought she would be disgusted and would want to leave the topic alone.

'It was just straight sex, in the bed, I was on top,' he says.

She nods. 'Missionary huh? You're a romantic at heart.'

He looks at her. He seems dejected. She feels as if it was a cruel comment, although she hadn't meant it to be. She was trying to joke – to lighten the mood. She jumps down off the bench and moves to stand beside him.

'Look, I really don't care,' she says softly, touching his arm, 'as long as you're not having sex with anyone else while you're having sex with me.'

'You're not…' he says slowly, 'having sex with anyone else?'

'Oh god no Greg. If I wanted to have sex with someone else I would tell you, and if I actually intended to, I'd break it off with you first. I don't sleep around, even in casual relationships. It's too weird. I'm surprised you would think that of me.'

'Well, you're a beautiful woman…' he starts saying.

She rolls her eyes. At this expression, he stops talking.

'Well thankyou,' she says, 'but I think that's irrelevant.'

'No, it's not. Any one of the men who saw you there today would have wanted to sleep with you… besides we haven't really discussed the terms of this…relationship.'

She nods, acknowledging his last point.

'Alright, well that's how I see it,' she says, 'casual but exclusive. Is that alright with you?'

He nods, 'yeah.'

'Cool,' she says, 'I'm glad we've had this discussion.'

He nods again in agreement.

'So,' she says nudging him and smiling, 'we've almost taken care of the hungry part, what about the horny part?'

He looks at her, returning a smile.


	19. XIX Scream

This chapter contains references to the events in the episode: 'Sex Kills.'

XIX - Scream

Standing in his bathroom, he pops a pill. Not Vicodin, a different pill. A secret pill. _Everyone_ knows about the Vicodin. _No-one_ knows about these pills. The Vicodin helps to numb the pain in his leg, these pills help to numb the pain in his mind. For a time, he found that a few extra Vicodin was enough to kick his brain into neutral. Now he has discovered the benefits of something else, something _specialised_.

He finally made the call. He ponders the conversation he has had with his mother – the things she had said. _'He's not in a good way Greg.' 'He wants to see you Greg.' 'You will regret it if you don't…'_

Now he is burdened by indecision. He must reach a resolution. Will he visit his father? _He wants to see you._ What bullshit. There is no doubt the man would be furious if his son did not visit, but this is not personal, it is not a matter of family devotion – it is about duty. Military ideals. A relationship, a bond – mutual regard and esteem are of a lesser priority, if at all a priority. His father was never a cruel man – he was indifferent which in some ways, was worse. When he was very young, he admired and respected the man. There were times when his father made him laugh – made him smile, taught him things. These times were rare. Underneath and in between, the man was apathetic, unresponsive. As a boy he found himself yearning for his father's attention, whether that attention be a wink over the dinner table to acknowledge a personal joke, or a reprimanding slap. Neither of these were common.

He had inherited his father's sense of humour – his cunning streak, his boldness. His keen intelligence however, his inquiring mind – a gift from his mother. The difference was, she was quiet, unassuming, soft. It was never obvious with her, never threatening. Young Gregory on the other hand, fuelled by the traits his father had imparted, was sharp and confrontational – and thus his brilliance was obvious. At twelve, he retaliated. _Look at me damn it, I'm right here_. He became a challenge. It was not right – it was not the way it was supposed to be. A son has his place – under his father's thumb. He was not the ideal son, not the obedient, respectful, ordinary boy he was supposed to be – and he was constantly reminded of that fact. _You are not what I want_. Although it was never spoken in this way, never revealed so explicitly – the message was clear.

The boy was gifted. The boy was a threat. The _man_ had worked his knuckles to the bone in order to acquire the uniform, the badges, the medals and the declarations of honour. The _boy_ on the other hand, exhibited top performance in every endeavour, with apparently very little effort. It seemed unnatural. _What's wrong with you? Why are you different?_ At eighteen, he was free – college was the answer – he would leave and never return. Emancipation. He would be able to lick his wounds – heal. He soon learned that distance was only a stop gap. He has not healed. The resentment thrives. He realises that his avoidance is counterproductive, but in the short term it offers some relief and so it is maintained. Naturally, the idea of visiting this man, this creator of his, conjures a mix of predominantly unpleasant feelings – exhaustion, sorrow, vulnerability. It is an aversive prospect, and yet his mother is right, he would regret it if he didn't.

Knocking interrupts his rumination. He opens the door to her.

'Heard you had a bad day,' she says.

_You have no idea, _he thinks.

'Yeah, if you'd call bruised testicles bad…' he replies, with accompanying facial expression.

_Nothing compared to the phone call._

'Hmm, sex is off the menu then?' she says.

'You only use me for my penis,' he says teasingly, moving to the sofa, sitting.

She sits beside him, resting her hand on his good thigh.

'Nope, you've demonstrated that you can get me off rather effectively with other parts of your anatomy. Joke. While it is true that I love your penis – it is a particularly attractive penis, and it has only ever been good to me…' she says grinning at him, '…it doesn't make me laugh…which is probably a good thing…'

'Yes,' he agrees.

'It doesn't make me toasted cheese sandwiches, it doesn't take me for rides on its bike, it doesn't play the piano for me, it doesn't say things that amaze me…'

He smiles, embarrassed. She is a welcome distraction.

'The sex _is_ fantastic though, isn't it?' she says, rolling her eyes to the ceiling.

'Ha, yeah,' he nods in agreement.

'So what happened?' she asks, raising her brow, eyeing his crotch.

'I tricked a guy into donating his wife's heart to save a man's life. He didn't like that.'

'Oh, I guess he just didn't want her giving her heart to another man,' she grins, 'get it?'

'Yeah, that's a bad joke. I'll have to use it.'

She pats his hand. 'Aw, you get beaten up a bit don't cha honey?'

He laughs.

She stands and moves behind him, places her hands on his shoulders.

'Pull your shoulders back,' she says, squeezing them and pulling them back.

'Ouch! That hurts,' he says, looking up at her.

'That's because you're all stiff…and we've already established that it's not in the good way,' she laughs, kissing his neck.

He cranks his head from side to side. She places her right hand at the nape of his neck and squeezes with her thumb and forefingers. He groans softly. Her hands move lower and she squeezes repeatedly, starting near the base of his neck and moving out to his shoulders.

'Harder,' he demands.

'Isn't that what I usually say to you?' she jokes.

He grins. She begins kneading his muscles.

'Mm,' he groans loudly, his head falling forward, 'harder,' he repeats.

She complies, squeezing his shoulders hard, before pressing her thumbs into the back of his neck.

His groans become louder still. She raises her eyebrows.

'Is that better?' she asks.

'Good…' he grunts, leaning forward to give her access to his upper back.

She moves down further, before deciding that his outer shirt should come off. Her hands move around to his front and she pulls at his buttons - hinting. He unbuttons his shirt for her.

'…but I am a bit disappointed that I know this massage won't have a "happy" ending…' he says, almost inquiringly.

He had half expected her to leave when the prospect of sex was discounted – make an excuse, back out. She often arrives at his place, but arriving goes hand in hand with departing. In the beginning, she usually left after sex. He wonders: _if there is no sex, will she leave sooner?_ Lately she had been staying for longer periods of time, sleeping the night more often. He is quite certain that the ratio is such that the proportion of time spent engaged in sexual activity, is substantially less than the proportion of time _not_ engaged in sexual activity, but the fact of the matter is, departure is inevitable, whether it is that night, or the next morning. Worse – there is often no guarantee of the next time he will see her – no set meeting time. It is random. He hates this.

'Well, it won't have an unhappy ending,' she says.

He wonders if this statement is prophetic.

She continues working to loosen his muscles, moving across and down slowly until she has reached his lower back. He mumbles and groans quietly as she works. When she has finished, she uses her finger to trace his name over the material of his t-shirt, followed by her own name.

'Turn the TV on,' she says, 'I think they're showing _The Ring_ on one of the movie channels.'

'_The Ring_?'

'Yeah. I _love_ scary movies. It is my absolute favorite genre.'

He reaches for the remote, switching the television on. She sits beside him on the sofa.

'Good timing,' she says, as the movie begins, 'give me your feet.'

'What?'

'Turn around, and put your feet up here,' she says, patting her lap.

He shifts on the sofa, gently resting his feet on her lap. She smiles as she pulls at the laces on his Converse shoes, removing them one by one. She starts with his right foot, squeezing it through his sock, before kneading the ball of his heal and progressively moving to his toes.

'_Oh my god_,' he mumbles, resting his head on the arm of the sofa.

'Well maybe there will be a happy ending after all. You look like you're going to come,' she laughs.

She takes his left foot. This foot has had to bear the majority of his weight all day. She watches his face – his eyes closed, brow raised. Pure contentment.

They sit side by side now, as they watch the movie. Her gaze is fixed on the television – her eyes wide with trepidation. The music swells suddenly and she jolts and gasps loudly. After a few seconds she clutches his arm, throws her head back and giggles with delight. He grins as he watches her.

'You really get off on this don't you?' he asks.

'I love it! The human fascination with being scared is in itself fascinating.'

She focuses her attention back on the television and he continues to watch her, analysing her perfect profile. He imagines that she would be the ideal subject to paint, if he had any talent as an artist. He thinks about what he would like to do to her, and for once it isn't sexual. When he first laid eyes her, his dirty thoughts were restricted to simple carnal fucking. When they had first started out together, the frequency of these thoughts had increased. They had become even more detailed and explicit, because he knew that he actually had the opportunity to try the things with her. And he did. There was nothing she wasn't willing to do. After years of abstinence, followed by a tragic stint with a hooker, his time with her had been a sort of sexual awakening. But now, as he watches her, he has different thoughts. Now, he thinks about taking her delicate face in his hands and gently brushing his lips over hers. He thinks about slowly peeling her clothing away and lying down with her. He wants to do nothing else but lie with her, skin against skin. He stares forward at the television and clenches his jaw. Silently, he laughs at himself, realizing that the contents of a corny romance novel are unfolding in his head.

He reaches for the Vicodin in his pocket. She watches as he shakes two pills into the palm of his hand.

'I wish we could take shifts,' she says suddenly.

'What?'

She looks away, uncertain as to how he will take this.

'With your leg – well the pain anyway. I'd look pretty funny with one of your legs on my body, not to mention the fact that my hips would be thrown out cos one leg would be substantially longer then the other.'

She looks back at him to discover the expression of amusement on his face. _Good_, she thinks, _maybe he won't take this so badly after all_.

'If we could alternate, between days, or throughout the day…' she continues.

He smiles, looking at the floor in the nervous way he does whenever she says anything that makes him surge with emotion.

She kisses his cheek. '…I think that would be fair,' she says.

He shifts closer to her, curling his long arm around her, pulling her gently to his side. She looks at him. They smile at one another. She rests her head on his shoulder. This will be the first night they spend together without having sex.


	20. XX Heart

XX – Heart

Stimulation in body and cell,

For the good and misguided,

-

Pure Pleasure Seeker, Moloko

She opens the door to find him holding his rat cage. She looks down at it.

'I need a favour. I have to go away for a while…could you mind Steve?' he says.

'Sure.'

He hands the cage to her.

'Where are you going?' she asks.

'Ah…it's…' he rubs his neck, 'my dad's in a bad way, and my mom's insisting that I go and… it might be the last time I see him…'

She is silent, gauging his facial expression.

'So…thanks,' he says quietly, as he turns away from the door.

'Hey…' her free hand shoots out and captures his.

He looks backwards, eyeing his hand in hers.

'Are you ok?' she asks softly – her voice stable.

He nods without turning completely.

'Want me to come with you?' she asks.

'No.'

Silence. He is contemplating the idea.

'How would we explain that?' he says slowly.

'I don't know…you could say that you're meeting with someone while you're there, to talk about a research project for the hospital. We could say that I'm your research assistant,' she offers, shrugging.

He pauses, thinking for a second.

He forces a short laugh, 'nah, who would mind Steve?'

His hand drops from hers as he moves away.

He is in a hospital. Nothing new, he is in a hospital nearly every day of his life. But he doesn't work in _this_ hospital. Good, no-one here knows that he is a doctor. He enters the room. His father is propped up against a mountain of pillows, watching the baseball. He looks remarkably healthy for someone who has had triple bypass surgery.

_Told you to lay off the butter, you stupid bastard,_ House thinks.

_In a bad way, my ass. What's the life expectancy for a patient who has had triple bypass surgery? About fifteen years… Another fifteen years…_

'Greg is here,' his mother says.

She does her usual trick – fusses, says things to fill the silence, picks up the slack.

His father glances at him, nods slightly – forcedly, before returning his gaze to the television.

'How do you change the channel on this thing?' John says, 'damn remote.'

He slams the remote against the bedside table.

'Here,' House says, taking the remote, 'what channel do you want?'

'Fox.'

House changes the channel. His father snatches the remote back from him, without making eye contact. It is not good enough. Nothing is ever good enough – nothing. He remembers the day he was accepted into med-school.

'John, Greg got into Hopkins. He was the top applicant – the first accepted!' his mother had said.

'Hmph,' his father had grunted, leaving the room without even looking at the boy – his son, standing, shoulders slumped, eyes to the floor.

He wasn't there at graduation. He wasn't there at any of the graduations. He wasn't there.

His mother was there – smiling, kissing, taking photographs, but _he_ wasn't there. He _was_ there however, to frown and grunt in disapproval, to deliver a backhanded slap, to growl '_don't talk to your mother like that,' _and then he was gone again – Egypt, China, Vietnam, god knows where. When he was very young, he imagined that his father had another life somewhere in one of those distant foreign countries – another wife, another son. Maybe he loved this other son…

He stays for a full hour. Fulfils his duty. Leaves feeling as expected – heavy.

Back at home, he hears the sound of her car parking in the street and finds himself peeking through the blinds of his front window. He watches her lock her car and hop up the front steps.

There is a knock at the door and he has to wait for the second knock before he realises that it really _is_ a knock and it really _is_ at his door. Even though he knows it is her, he lowers his head to the peep-hole and his eye registers her image. Occasionally, when substantial time has passed since they have seen one another, he forgets _just_ how beautiful she is. She is holding Steve's cage. He opens the door.

'Hey.'

'Hey.'

He stands aside, allowing her to enter.

'Steve and I had a wonderful time. I even cleaned his cage, twice,' she says.

She places the cage on the side table and looks at him. His eyes are bloodshot and he stares at her as if he is trying to decide whether she really exists. She notices that he leans more heavily on his cane then usual.

'Are you wasted?' she asks matter-of-factly.

'Yeah, half way there,' he replies.

She moves to sit on his sofa. Slowly and awkwardly, he joins her.

'What did you take?' she asks, calmly, nonchalantly, as she flicks her hair back off her shoulder and rests her chin on her hand.

'A couple of extra Vicodin. Washed it down with a half a bottle of that,' he nods his head towards the almost empty bottle of Scotch on the coffee table.

She follows his gaze to the bottle before turning her head back to him.

He doesn't tell her about the Zoloft. He had been taking it for more than three months before they had started seeing each other regularly. Two weeks into their affair, he had barely noticed that he had forgotten to take it. He had started taking it again after the second conversation with his mother. He was self medicating as usual – highly illegal and against hospital policy, but what other choice did he have – drive out of town and see a psychiatrist? They may have reported him – deemed him unfit to practice. God forbid any of them should find out about it. Cuddy, Wilson, Cameron – anyone of his subordinates, and especially Lee. Why her? Why would he consider Lee knowing, the worst case scenario? Logically, he had the least to lose with her knowing, right?

They sit in silence. She kicks her shoes off and pulls her legs up under herself. They exchange glances intermittently. There is no pressure to speak, no pressure to feel awkward for not speaking. She is so calm and cool. He appreciates this. If she had been his mother, or Cameron, or Cuddy or any other woman he could think of in his life…even Stacy, she would have poked and prodded and fussed.

'My dad is fine,' he says, rolling his head to look at her again.

How does she do this? How does she get him to talk? He just opens his mouth and the words come out. The less she asks for, the more he gives. She had been watching Steve over the back of the sofa, running in his wheel. She slowly moves her head to face him.

'That's good news then…' she says.

She knows there is more to this.

He smiles to himself, 'yeah, he's in top condition…probably got at least another fifteen years left in him,' he says, his voice laced with superficiality.

'Hmm, you don't say it like its good news.'

'It's… not like I want him dead…' he says cautiously, 'I want _it_ dead.'

'It?'

'The relationship, the connection – he _is_ my father and I just can't get away from it,' he says.

He pauses. 'I hate him.'

She nods – and that is all. He cannot believe it. His mother had said, 'no you don't,' Stacy had said, 'no you don't.'

'Aren't you going to tell me that I don't…' he says, 'aren't you going to say, _hate is a strong word Greg_?'

'No. I'm sure you do hate him,' she says certainly, in her perfectly pronounced Australian accent, 'you know what you're feeling. It's much easier than people believe – to hate.'

_Hate_, she thinks, it's just a word – people blow it out of proportion – make it out to be something that is unreachable. Sure, it is one of the highest forms of emotion – but it is not rare. Love is the same. It is easy to hate. It is easy to love. But it is not always easy to accept that you hate, or that you love…

She lifts the bottle of Scotch. 'I hope you have more of this,' she says.

He regards her. She pours herself a drink. Sculls it.

'What are you doing?' he asks.

'I'm going to get wasted with you. We can both have the day off tomorrow.'

This, he thinks, is a truly romantic gesture.


	21. XXI Soap

Warning: Return of the smut.

XXI - Soap

They have swapped keys now. They tell themselves that it doesn't mean anything; it's just a matter of convenience. She finishes work late and finds herself parking outside his place rather than pulling into her own driveway. She is not disappointed to find him already asleep. Instead, she grins as she takes in the image of this long-limbed man sprawled across the bed. She strips to her underwear and slips under the covers, fitting her petite body into the remaining space beside him. She thinks he will get a surprise when he wakes. He already knows she is there.

The sun comes up. He rolls onto his back, one arm hitting her and the other across his chest, rising and falling gently. She grins to herself and takes his arm. She examines the paleness of his wrist – the way it contrasts with the tanned skin on the outer side of his arm. She traces her finger over the tiny blue bulging veins. She doesn't know, but he is awake, lying with his eyes closed, feeling this. She touches her lips to this strangely beautiful wrist. He watches her with one eye open. She turns his arm over and kisses the back of his hand, before placing it gently by his side. She rolls on her side and presses her face into his t-shirt: the smell of him in the morning, warm and musky. Her hand moves over his chest, smoothing out the wrinkles of the material. She looks up at him, before pulling herself along his body and holding herself up to stare down at his face. _You're beautiful_, she thinks. It is becoming ever more apparent that her feelings for him may be problematic. They had an agreement. No strings. Casual. Is there a foreseeable end to this? She had implied there would be. Had this implication been sincere? No. She feels a pang of guilt. She had lied, mislead. She does not want to let him go. But, she had made a sort of promise and if he says so, she will have to force herself to cut the ties. The prospect is greatly distressing. She wonders if there is anything she could do, or say to change this. _I think I'm in love with you._ No. _I know I'm in love with you. I AM in love with you._

Her fingers comb through the hair at his temples. Brown, greying, soft hair. She lowers her face to his, kissing his chin, feeling the sharp prickle of whiskers on the delicate skin of her lips. She opens her mouth slightly, making little nips on his jaw with her front teeth. He opens his eyes and grins at this. She notices. Her smile widens and her finger pokes the dimple on his cheek. He is captivated. This is what he has awoken to – a perfectly lovely face, like the subject of a Pre-Raphaelite painting, smiling down at him. She tries to kiss his lips.

'I've got morning breath,' he grumbles in his waking voice.

'Shut up, I don't care,' she presses her lips against his demandingly.

She sends her hand under her the blankets to discover his erection.

'Oh yes! Morning glory.' She tugs at his arm, trying to pull him against her.

He laughs, exposing his perfectly straight white teeth. 'I'm not even fully awake yet.'

'Ah, but you're fully erect. Get up and play.'

She is above him on bended knees and takes his hand, using her own to guide it under her singlet to caress her breast.

'I'm going to run a shower. That should wake you up,' she says.

She lowers her body, moving her ass against his erection. He groans.

'Come on…it's all _hot_ and _wet_, you can _slam_ me up against the tiles or _take me_ from behind…whatever you want.' She speaks in her sleaziest phone sex voice.

She lifts her knee over him and slides off the bed. As she walks towards the bathroom she pulls her singlet off and discards it on the floor, exposing her bare back to him.

In the bathroom, she turns the taps and watches the glass fog up as she removes her white cotton panties. After a few seconds under the water, she spots him in the doorway leaning heavily on his cane. She grins.

'Get over here.'

He complies and she reaches for him, splashing water over his pyjamas.

'Hey, you're making me all wet,' he jokes.

'Just returning the favour,' she says, raising her eyebrows, 'get naked and get in here.'

'Yes mistress.' He hooks his cane on the towel rack and pulls his shirt over his head.

He lets his pyjama pants fall to the floor and joins her in the shower. The steam fills his lungs and he feels the sweat on his brow immediately. He is still fully erect and she gently pushes him against the glass, swabbing his chest with a loofa in one hand and gripping his cock with the other.

'I can't believe you were going to waste this beautiful erection,' she says, grinning as she begins stroking him.

His head rests on the glass and he shuts his eyes, moaning.

'It's a gift,' she says, still grinning.

She twists her wrist when she reaches the base of his cock and makes circles with her thumb when she reaches the head. She stops stroking when she hears his breathing pause. She guides his right hand between her legs to show him how wet the sight of his erection has made her. She urges him to slip a finger inside her, gasping her approval.

'So, how do you want me?' she asks.

Without a word, he turns her gently. She bends for him, parting her legs. His hands splay on her hips and his cock gently parts the taut muscles of her opening. Despite the muscular tension, he slides into her easily, as he always does. Her body is expecting him, readies itself for him, welcomes this blissful invasion.

'Slowly,' she mutters, grasping the handrail he has had installed to steady himself when he showers.

She feels his whiskers graze her shoulder as he nods, acknowledging her request. He begins to move his hips, pushing himself into her leisurely. She moves too, gently rocking her hips back to him. One of his hands moves from her hip to her breast, cupping briefly before slipping lower. She twitches and he feels her tighten around his cock as his fingers drift over her lower belly and slide between her folds.

'_Oh!'_ she moans as his skilful pianist's fingers tease her clit.

'_Christ,_ you're going to make me come already!' She gasps, and the thick hot air fills her throat.

He grins to himself, sucking on her shoulder, still thrusting into her slowly. He continues teasing with his fingers and she gasps again, and then again as she comes. Her spasms squeeze him tight - causing his orgasm to rush forth into her like a sudden gust of violent wind.

They go to work separately. They part at his door. He takes his bike and she takes her car.

'I have to go home and change first,' she tells him. Her cheeks are flushed pink, from the sex and the heat of the shower.

'What's wrong with that outfit?' he says half sarcastically, helmet in hand, eyeing her.

'I wore it yesterday, people will think there's something going on.' She smiles, as she unlocks her car.

'You're going to be late,' he says.

'I don't care. If you fuck me like that every morning, eventually I won't bother going to work at all!'

This comment makes him grin. She ducks into her car and slams the door. He pulls his helmet on. He rides only marginally above the speed limit, but it feels as if he is speeding the whole way. He notices he is still grinning when he removes his helmet at the hospital.

Wilson finds House in his office during lunch.

'So, Julie kicked you out again,' House says.

'What…how did you…?'

'You've been wearing the same tie for the last two days. You _never_ do that. And your shirt is unironed.'

Wilson sighs, sitting on the chair opposite House's desk. 'Yeah,' he says, 'it's not going well.'

Silence.

'So how's it going with Emerson?' Wilson asks, trying to sound casual, 'you two still…?' he lets his voice trail off. It is the most tactful way he can think to ask about his friend's sex life.

House looks at Wilson. He is not going to let him get away with this easily. 'What?' he asks innocently.

'Are you still…?' Wilson struggles.

'Doing the nasty, the horizontal tango?' House says, 'Giving each other _'special'_ hugs? Bumping uglies? Getting down and dirty? Can't think of any more euphemisms...'

Wilson sighs. 'Yes, that's exactly how I was trying to phrase it…are you still getting down and dirty?' he says sarcastically, rigidly.

_Wouldn't you like to know?_ House thinks. _In the shower, over a desk, in the car, on the sofa, a naughty nurse outfit, over the piano, on the kitchen floor, a hand-job in the disabled toilet at the state art gallery, necking in movie theaters and behind bookshelves in public libraries… _

'Why, are you waiting for an invitation or something?' House says acerbically, 'want me to ask her if she minds making a Paris Hilton style home movie, for your own personal viewing?'

Wilson wrinkles his nose, 'I'm sorry I asked.'

House grins to himself. Mission accomplished.

'Why are you so unwilling to talk about this?' Wilson says, curiously, 'I must admit, it's not completely out of character, but you are being _particularly_ evasive this time around.'

House says nothing.

'Not even a hint here or there…' Wilson continues, 'if it _was_ just sex, I'm sure you would be bragging, even if only subtly…'

Silence.

'Are you _in love_ with her?' Wilson asks in an accusing tone.

House laughs dismissively.

She is at his place again that night. He is in the shower, she is making spaghetti bolognaise in the kitchen. The phone rings beside her. Without even thinking, she lifts it.

'Hello,' she says.

'Oh… hello, I think I must have the wrong number,' a female voice says down the line.

'Oh no, sorry, did you want to speak to Greg?' Lee asks.

She feels her cheeks blush, realising what she has done. She imagines that this woman must be his mother. She wonders how he will react.

'Yes…' the voice says hesitantly.

'Ok, hold on a moment.'

She places the phone down carefully on the bench top and finds him in the bathroom. Messy wet hair, towel around his waist. Usually when she catches him like this she wants to hold him, press her face against the freshly plumped, hydrated skin of his bare chest and inhale the clean soap smell. But now she is apprehensive.

'Greg…'

He looks at her. She cringes.

'The phone rang. I accidentally answered it. I think it's your mother,' she says.

'Accidentally?'

'Yeah, sorry, I must have thought I was at home.'

He nods once, biting his bottom lip in thought. She relaxes. He doesn't seem to be upset. He limps to the kitchen. She follows, staying back in the lounge and sitting on the couch. He lifts the phone, watching her.

'Hello,' he says. Pause. 'Hi mom.' Pause. 'Yeah.' Pause. 'Mmm hmm.'

He turns away from her. 'Yeah, she's my girlfriend,' he says quietly.

She smiles, laughs, clamps her hand over her mouth.

'Ah, no mom,' he says, 'no…' Pause. 'Alright.'

He holds his hand over the phone and turns back to Lee.

'She wants to talk to you,' he says.

She raises her eyebrows, stands – moves into the kitchen laughing quietly.

'I'm glad you think it's funny,' he whispers as he hands the phone to her.

'Hello,' she says.

'Hi, I'm Blythe,' his mother says warmly.

She knows her son. She is not surprised that he has kept this from her. She will not pry too much. She only wants to hear the soft Australian female voice again, just briefly...

'Hi…I'm Lee, nice to meet you,' Lee says.

'Well it's not really a meeting is it? Maybe one day I will get to meet you in the flesh.'

'Yeah, that would be nice.'

'How long have you been dating Greg?'

'Ah…'

She thinks. _Dating? How cute, how innocent. But what does that mean? Actually, physically going out to public places together? In that case, about a month… sleeping with on the other hand – about six months._ She doesn't imagine this will go down well.

'A few months,' she says.

'Oh, that's nice.'

Silence.

'Ok, well, nice talking to you dear,' Blythe says.

'Yes, you too, goodbye,' Lee replies, before handing the phone back to House.

She laughs to herself and he can't help but smile as he watches her while saying 'yeah,' down the phone.

He continues to talk to his mother, uttering monosyllables like a typical son, while she playfully tries to unwrap his towel. He attempts to swat her hands away, and has to cover the phone to prevent his mother from hearing her laughter. Finally she has his towel open, and he cannot believe it, but she kneels in front of him and takes him into her mouth. He pauses in shock, his mouth forms a wide O. His mother must have been demanding to know what was going on because he says 'yeah, I'm still here mom,' his voice strained with pleasure. She grins, looking up at him. He regards his erection.

'Mom, something's come up. I'm going to have to call you back,' he says breathlessly, before slamming the phone back on its cradle.

He watches her as she works.

'You were trying to suck me off while I was talking to my _mother_!' he says, flabbergasted.

She nods, licking him. 'You looked like you needed rescuing from the conversation.'

'I…_oh!_…. I can't believe you did that! _Mmm_, you're… such a dirty girl…' he mutters.

'Well apparently, I'm your dirty girl_friend_…' she says, offering him a mischievous grin before taking him back into her mouth.


	22. XXII Headache

XXII – Headache

Quietly turning to stone,

Make me flesh and bone.

-

Pure Pleasure Seeker, Moloko

On weekends, they play a game. They undress and lie in bed waiting. Waiting to see who will make the first move, who will take control. Today, it is him. His fingers part her folds and she inhales sharply as he slips two of them inside her. It is uncomfortable – she is not ready for him, but the unlubricated friction is oddly pleasant. She allows him to slide his fingers in and out. The discomfort is verging on pain and yet the sensation is triggering the usual signs of arousal. He watches her, well aware of this. There is a fine line between pleasure and pain. She loves watching him. His focus shifts constantly, from watching his fingers work, to watching her face. His expression – errant, wicked, focused. She hopes he will start to use his tongue soon. He possesses considerable skill in that arena.

'What do you want me to do?' he says, as if reading her thoughts.

'You know what I want you to do,' she smiles.

His fingers slide out of her easily now. He presses a hand on each thigh and offers her a sly grin before lowering his head. _Oh god, _she thinks, as she feels the blissful slipperiness of his tongue. She is thanking god, or whoever, or whatever is responsible for creation, so that she is able to feel this. Her orgasms start immediately, one melding into the next, into the next, into the next. He flattens his tongue and presses it hard against her. She tries to stay still, to endure the pleasure, but she has lost control of her body – it arches freely – she is uttering all manner of incoherent gibberish. Finally, she is still. He senses this and slides up her body, entering her in one fluid motion. She groans 'ah,' and draws her legs up as his movements blend seamlessly. He catches her right leg at his side, his hand fitting in the cleft under her knee in order to steady himself as he thrusts with agility. With the knowledge that he has satisfied her, he allows himself to move however he pleases – thrusting precisely and steadily until he feels the shiver of his impending orgasm. After a few seconds, he kisses her once on the lips before moving off of her. He often does this – as if in gratitude. He pulls on whatever clothing he can find, takes his cane and leaves the room.

'I have a head-ache,' she calls to him.

His head appears at the bathroom door.

'I thought you were supposed to say that _before_ sex – if you wanted to get out of it,' he says, pulling a face.

She smiles, 'no, seriously. I don't know why, maybe it's an endorphin overdose...'

'I was lost in the moment – apologies if I was pounding you against the headboard,' he jokes.

She laughs out loud, rolling off the bed and pulling her singlet and underpants on.

She continues laughing to herself as she enters the bathroom.

'Got any Aspirin?' she asks.

He grins. She rolls her eyes to the ceiling, realising how stupid her question is.

'Only the hardcore stuff baby. Top shelf,' he points to the medicine cabinet, 'half of one should be enough for you.'

She opens his medicine cabinet, searching for a bottle of Vicodin. Something else catches her eye. Several cardboard boxes – drug samples. She takes one of the small cardboard boxes from the shelf, turns it over, reads the label. _Zoloft_. Her smile falls away. She pulls the tab open, slides one of the foil trays out. Empty. She slides the other out. Half empty. He turns and sees her standing with her mouth wide open. He immediately gauges her concern. His eyes flick to the box. He feels the rage rising in him.

'They were for a patient…I must have put them there by mistake.' His voice is cold.

'But…the packet is almost empty,' she says quietly.

He says nothing, grinds his teeth.

'Look…' she says soothingly, 'I'm not going to preach…'

'No?' he says angrily, raising his voice, 'cos you seem to be going down that road!'

She reads his expression. He is furious. He presses his weight onto his cane and limps back into the bedroom. She follows.

'Greg…'

He refuses to look at her.

'Don't…' she says, 'it's no big deal…'

But it is a big deal. She knew he was slightly unhappy, but _antidepressants?_

'…look,' she continues, 'I know it sounds lame, but you can talk to me whenever you want, about whatever you want…'

He faces her, shouting, 'WHY! So you can sit me on your couch, analyse me and pick me apart!'

She remains cool in spite of his shouting. She has not fooled herself, she knew what she was getting into. He has a volatile personality, she has known this all along. She has been expecting this, in fact, she is surprised that it hasn't happened sooner.

'No,' she objects calmly, 'I told you, I don't want to be your therapist, I just want to be your friend. I want us to be human with each other – to be real. Besides, I don't think I have all the answers.'

He turns away from her, sitting on the bed.

'Look, I know I'm fucked up ok,' he says, harried, 'I can almost see you formulating my case… daddy issues, trust issues with women, nonacceptance of physical disability, drug dependence…I tried to warn you but you're so _god damn_ persistent!'

'Greg…'

The situation is too much – the confrontation is unbearable. He must end it. In order to do this, he knows he must hurt her.

'Why the hell are we doing this anyway?' he yells, 'we're _still_ doing this. Why? Why are you still hanging around? Why don't you just fuck off?'

He turns from her, takes a deep breath. He is disgusted with himself for speaking to her in this way, but he feels as if it is for her own good. She needs to be given the chance to get out – he has to give her a reason to get out before it is too late. He waits for it – the yelling, the retrieval of clothing and other personal belongings, the door slamming. He does not get the reaction he is expecting. She moves across the bed as quickly as she can manage and pulls his arm roughly so that he is forced to turn and face her. She crushes her lips against his, kissing him defiantly.

'I'm not going anywhere,' she says against his mouth, 'deal with it,'

Instinctively, his arms encircle her body. He holds her, feeling tremendously contrite and unworthy.

'I'm not taking them anymore,' he says quietly.

She nods.

Suddenly, he has overwhelming perspective. He had been blinded by her – enchanted. Their time together has been exquisite – months, weeks, days, nights, hours, minutes, seconds. But now, for some reason, he is able to take a step back. What _are_ they doing? Why _is_ she still here? Why _does_ he deserve this? He does not, he thinks. He is undeserving, unworthy, inadequate. A lost cause. What's more, he has broken his golden rule. Avoid attachments – the inevitable dissolution is insufferable. His predicament has been unveiled. What to do?


	23. XXIII Vogue

My goodness! I've turned into a romantic sap. So shoot me!

XXIII – Vogue

Desperation I'm under your spell,

Misunderstood and derided

-

Pure Pleasure Seeker, Moloko

The oncology ball. He _loathes_ formal events – he is required to dress in formal attire. A tux. Wilson has convinced him to attend. 'What about the bald children with cancer?' At least he would sweep at the poker table. Lee is there too - dressed in a black velvet corset dress and sapphire earrings. The rich black material offsets her porcelain skin, and her golden red hair is swept back softly. She looks divine – ethereal, like a princess from a strange gothic fairytale. They do not speak a single word to each other, but each time they make eye contact she gives him the smile. It is his smile. She never smiles at anyone else like this: it is just for him. It starts slowly, in the corner of her mouth. It is a knowing smile - it seems to say, _we know something no-one else does_. He watches her from the poker table, stealing glances whenever Cuddy and Wilson glare at their hand of cards. His friend and the administrator imagine that their surveillance of their cards is inconspicuous… 'Poker face my ass,' he thinks. Meanwhile, he maintains his poker face throughout his keen surveillance of Lee.

He watches her take another glass of champagne from the drinks waiter as she pretends to be engrossed in a conversation with some of the psychiatrists from her ward. She drinks the champagne a little too quickly, taking gulps instead of sips. She excuses herself, making her way to the bathroom as soon as she has emptied the glass. He taps his chips on the table. Waits a minute. Follows.

'House,' Wilson calls after the tall limping man, 'you folding?'

No reply.

She exits the bathroom to find him leaning against the wall parallel to the door. She offers him a more subtle version of the smile. His mouth moves to reciprocate this gesture. Another woman exits the bathroom and they wait, eyes shifting as she moves by Lee. When the woman has passed, House steps forward whispering, 'wait ten minutes, meet me in the clinic,' before returning to the party.

She does as she is told. It is late. Although the hospital continues on as usual despite the ball, the clinic is closed. The hall is illuminated but the clinic is dark. She glances over her shoulder before trying the door. Open. She enters carefully, moving towards the reception desk.

'Greg?' she whispers loudly.

She hears the rubber end of his cane and his shoes behind her. This sound – the anticipation of their encounter, makes her heart race – still. She feels the warmth of his hand on her bare shoulder. She shuts her eyes, breathes, smiles to herself. His fingertips trace her spine – lightly, barely touching, before his arm snakes around her waist and he gently urges her to step back out of the yellow light shining in from the corridor. Hidden by the darkness, behind a wall, he stoops to kiss her elegant neck, his arm still around her waist, holding her close to his body. He smells good. No nasty smelling cologne or aftershave. He smells how a man should smell. Natural. Clean and happily familiar. She turns in his embrace and catches the glimmer of his eyes. He lifts his thumb to her lips – gently wipes the gloss away so that he can kiss her. Gentle but fervent kisses.

'Come back to my place,' he says quietly, holding her. His arms could encircle her body twice.

She nods against his chest.

'Let's go now,' he adds.

Later, in his bedroom, when he looks at her he knows it is love, as yet undeclared. It is no longer deniable. She sits slumped in the old fifties arm chair in the corner of the room, wearing one of his shirts over her tiny, most likely excruciatingly expensive underwear. Her dress lays discarded on the floor. 'Get me out of this thing,' she had said, and he had felt privileged as he unlaced her bodice. There are little ribbon ties at her hips, holding two triangular scraps of fine black lace to her body. The same transparent lace covers her breasts, doing a terrible job of concealing the pink of her nipples. The material is like a fine black spider's web. She wears matching stockings – lace trim at her thighs. She always wears them, even though it is not necessary. The blatant eroticism drives him crazy. She knows this. It is why she has stocked several boxes. He has been known to ladder and tear them in frenzy. She tucks her knees under her body and clamps her littlest finger between her teeth. The dim light from his bedside lamp casts shadows and accentuates the shapes of her figure. The curve of her breast, the angularity of her clavicles, her perfect profile. The image reminds him of one of the art-house fashion shoots he has seen in her _Vogue_ magazines.

He knows he has been in love with her for a substantial time. He has only just admitted it. He has thrown his arms up to the sky and said, _yes it is true_. He feels stupid being in love now, _really_ being in love. He thinks about the worn out rock stars and movie stars in _People_ magazine, who marry a twenty-something piece of fluff after divorcing their same aged wife. The scenario is such a cliché. But she isn't a piece of fluff, she is wise beyond her years. She says the most insightful things as if she is commenting on the weather – things he would never have contemplated on his own. He tries to understand why he cannot take his eyes off her when they are together and why he cannot stop thinking about her when they are apart. He feels like a teenage boy – besotted with his first crush. He had only ever imagined that this kind of feeling was reserved for the Camerons of the world. At first he had denied it. Then it had concerned him – he had lost control of his rational mind. Now he has admitted it. He has also accepted that he must take action. He has not, however, come to terms with his chosen course of action.

He sits on the bed, watching her. 'Come here,' he says.

She turns to face him, grinning, before discarding his shirt on the chair and moving to stand between his legs, resting her hands on his shoulders. His hands move to her hips before sliding up and around where his fingers meet at the small of her back. She is so delicate – breakable. His strong hands could do considerable damage. This is not an unsettling thought however, because he doesn't consider it in terms of the harm he is capable of inflicting, he considers it in terms of the trust she admits in spite of this – her willingness to give herself over to him. Their eyes meet. They are silent – touching, feeling, being. His hand moves to cradle her jaw and his thumb caresses her cheek. Her face – young, flawless, unspoiled. Not a wrinkle or a line – not a hint of wear or pain. It is there though, the pain. He just cannot see it. He cannot see it, because _he is_ her pain.

But it is heavenly.

Loving him in silence hurts her. Blissfully.

He moves back, lying on the bed, and she smiles her sex smile and sends her hand up the inside of his good thigh, cupping when she reaches his crotch. He gently takes hold of her arms.

'No,' he says quietly.

She furrows her brow and he urges her to lie down beside him.

'Wha…'

'Don't talk,' he says, fitting her body to his.

He has realized something and he has made a decision. He inhales her. Spicy rose perfume. He remembers the bottle – an open red heart encased in silver, sitting on the shelf in her bathroom. He will miss this smell after he sends her away. He gently moves her hair aside and kisses her neck. _Not this week, just one more,_ he tells himself. One more week before he will send her away.

Love can make even the most cynical of individuals, do peculiar things. Disconcerting things. He doesn't wash the shirt she wore, he wears it again on Monday so he can smell her perfume while he is away from her.


	24. XXIV Split

XXIV – Split

I never loved nobody fully  
Always one foot on the ground  
And by protecting my heart truly  
I got lost in the sounds  
I hear in my mind  
All these voices  
I hear in my mind all these words  
I hear in my mind all this music

And it breaks my heart  
-

Fidelity - Regina Spektor

It is a Sunday afternoon and they are naked under the covers of her bed. They are completely accustomed with each others bodies now. He is learning the exact placement of each of her hundreds of freckles. He knows the length of her eyelashes, and the brown fleck above the pupil in her right eye. She knows every one of the lines on his face and the pattern of grey that shows when his whiskers reach the point of becoming a beard. She watches the white curtains reaching out above them with the force of the gentle breeze. He pulls the covers back and traces her navel, dipping his little finger to touch the tiny button and regarding the single freckle beside it. He thinks about the day she was born. He would have been fifteen, in ninth grade, while the doctor was cutting the umbilical cord somewhere in Australia. He silently thanks her mother and father, whoever they are and wherever they are, for creating her so that she could be lying beside him now.

She is thinking that he is the best sex she has ever had. Partly because she is so infatuated that the mere thought of him makes her wet, and partly because he is just_ so damn good_. He has to be, that is House by nature – competitive, a campion. He knows that the softest touch brings the most pleasure, but he also knows when to increase the pressure. He knows she likes it when he whispers dirty things hoarsely in her ear, but he knows not to say the types of coarse words that turn her off. He knows when she is ready to take him and when she is not. He knows when she not in the mood, and every time, without fail, he can change this – he can turn her on like the flick of a switch.

'I knew you'd be good,' she says suddenly.

Their eyes meet. He is questioning her with his expression.

'In bed,' she says, clarifying. 'I knew it from the first moment I saw you.'

He grins, 'how did you know that?'

'Because you are truly intelligent. Truly intelligent people are intelligent in all respects. You're sexually intelligent.'

He laughs and she smiles.

'And you're passionate,' she continues, 'constantly raising your voice to have your opinion heard, dedicated…you have to be right, you have to get results, you always know what you are doing. You're the same in bed.'

He continues to smile. He is flattered but he can't agree with her that he _always_ knows what he is doing. He does not know what he is doing with her.

'Tell me why you wanted to be a doctor,' she says, propping herself up on an elbow.

He looks at her, thinking.

'It just happened,' he says, staring at the ceiling.

She moves down his body, hands and eyes exploring. This is the body that he shares with her so often. His surprisingly muscular chest, the area of hair between his pectorals, the tautness of his belly.

'My dad…' he starts.

She moves her head in line with his hips and he is distracted. She regards his penis – pink, lying flaccid. She takes hold of it.

'Keep going, your dad…' she says nonchalantly.

She licks the head of his cock, before resting it on the soft bed of her tongue. His body flinches and there is a sharp intake of breath. He is staring at her, aroused by the sight.

'Ah…I'm finding it difficult to talk about my dad while you've got my dick in your mouth.'

She laughs and he does too.

'Ok,' she says, loosening her grip on his newly erect penis, and moving her face close to his.

'Well actually, I wasn't hinting for you to take my dick out of your mouth, I was hinting that I didn't want to discuss my dad.'

'Ok,' she says again, 'can you tell me why you became a doctor, without mentioning your dad?'

She grips his cock again and starts stroking slowly.

'Mmm,' he moans, 'do I have to?'

'Please.' She licks him again.

He watches. He loves watching. His thighs are parted and his erection stands straight between them. She is licking it, respectfully, admiringly. He tries to steady his breath, preparing an answer. He squeezes his eyes shut.

'My dad was a marine pilot. I was expected to follow in his footsteps. I studied medicine to spite him,' he says quickly and succinctly.

She lies next to him and he is momentarily disappointed that she has stopped licking him.

'I'm glad. You're a good doctor,' she says.

His eyes search hers.

'I know you don't need me to say that. You don't need _anyone_ to say it. I just said it because I wanted to,' she says confidently, stretching her arms to the ceiling.

He believes this, and he is surprised to feel something surge within him. He is glad that he has impressed her. He is glad that he has pleased her. This is something that he rarely feels.

'How do you know that I'm a good doctor?' he asks.

'Well, you stitched my wrist up pretty well,' she says with a laugh.

He laughs with her.

'No,' she says, straightening her face, 'you're brilliant. You would have been the best at anything you chose to do.'

She touches his chest and he feels that she loves him. He cannot believe the intensity of the love he feels for her. It is hot inside him like a fever. She pulls him close, pressing her lips to his – kissing him once, twice, three times.

'I want you inside me,' she says, parting her legs.

He rolls on her. He is heavy and she rejoices in the feeling of his weight pressing against her, pinning her. She is trapped, blissfully imprisoned beneath him. He enters her and begins sliding in and out of her lazily, his arms holding the weight of his body above her. He watches her watching him and he thinks of the term _making love_. Upon reflection, he had wondered when he had stopped having sex with her and had started making love to her. There was no turning point, he had realised. He had always made love to her, even on that first frantic, spontaneous occasion. He doesn't regret it, but that first encounter should have also been their last. He knows it is too late. He has left it too late. It seems like every day the love swells and grows. It will end eventually anyway, he thinks. Stacy left, twice. His father left, again and again. She will leave too. Like everyone else, she will tire of him – grow weary. He thinks he may as well get it over with – rip it off quickly like a bandaid. He knows it is going to devastate him, it is going to cause more pain than his damn leg ever could, but he has to send her away. He cannot stay with her. He has already overstayed his welcome. She has a life to live – without him. He is keeping her from living her life. He thinks he is stifling her – holding her head under the water – drowning her.

Her hand reaches up and she touches his face, smiling. Her thumb presses his cheekbone and it is too much. His penis goes limp inside her. He pulls out quickly, horrified. He is on his back beside her.

'What's wrong?' she asks, concerned.

He shakes his head, turns away from her.

'It's alright,' she says calmly, hugging him.

And it is so perfect: what she has said, how she has done what she has done. She is always saying and doing the right things. She passes every test he sets for her. That makes it so much worse.

He waits an hour – holds her until she falls asleep. He knows she will not sleep unless he does this. If he doesn't hold her, she will realise all is not right, realise he is planning something. She will learn soon enough anyway, but he needs to feign normalcy long enough to slip away, because he cannot do it now. He knows it is cowardly, but he needs time to compose himself, he is not ready – it would be unbearable now. He wishes that he could simply erase himself from her memory. He searches her apartment – collects everything of his. He leaves.

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	25. XXV Messages

XXV – Messages

I'll tell you little white lies,

Viva indifference

-

Pure Pleasure Seeker, Moloko

She has given him space. She had sensed that he had needed it. It is over a week before they next see each other. They meet in the elevator again. She is riding it to the cafeteria. It stops on the third floor. The doors open to reveal House. He is still for a moment, staring at her. She smiles at him. The doors begin to close. He raises his cane and the sensors cause the doors to reopen. He enters the elevator. They are alone. She considers what she will say to him. The doors begin to close. She opens her mouth to speak, but the doors open again. A team of interns and their attending doctor hurry into the elevator with patient on a gurney. The lift is now overcrowded. Lee and House are forced together against the back wall, the gurney pressed against their bodies. She stands at his left side, staring forward. He regards her, before looking forward also, watching the interns debate. Suddenly, he feels her hand bump against his and their fingers tangle. They are holding hands now – the gurney conveniently hiding this fact. He glances at her. She continues to stare forward, cool, calm – as always. His hand is loose in hers, but he doesn't resist. She still feels it – the pulse between them. A faint smile breaks across her face. He feels her thumb moving gently, making circles on his. The doors to the elevator open. Just as swiftly as the interns make their exit, she gives his hand a quick squeeze, drops it, and follows them. She does not look back. He stares after her. He rests his head against the wall and sighs.

Night. She is on his doorstep, smiling. She knows there is something wrong, but she is determined to ignore this fact. She hopes it will simply go away. He stands with the door half closed – doesn't let her in. He knows he has to be brutal. _Come on, do what you do best_, he tells himself. She deserves an explanation. She deserves to be told that she doesn't need him, that she is above him, but she would only protest.

'I need you to leave me alone,' he says coldly.

She stops breathing. 'For how long?'

'Indefinitely.'

There are tears in her eyes.

'Are you sure that's what you want?'

He nods gravely.

She is silent for a moment.

'It's not what I want.' Her voice quavers.

He says nothing, looks away.

'Ok,' she says sadly, 'if it's what you _really_ want...'

He shuts the door and her pained expression is etched in the wood. He wants to scream, break something. He wants to hurt himself for hurting her. It is all his fault. He did this to himself. He did this to her. He hates himself for wanting her so badly on that day they met in the coffee shop, and for needing her ever since. He hates himself for being human, for being a mere man with weaknesses and needs. _It's stupid, so selfish and stupid_, he tells himself. On that first day he knew, in the back of his mind he knew that it could never be simple. _No strings_. There is no such thing. There are always strings. He realises that he probably loved her even before that day. The warning signs were there – blazon and obvious and yet he purposely ignored them because he had to have her. _Should have stuck with hookers,_ he tells himself,_ that's all you deserve, that's the only truly string free relationship, that's all you can handle_. He needs to cry but the tears will not come.

Predictably, insomnia has become his closest confidant. He is thinking of adding Diazepam to the ever growing list of pills he has been popping. On the odd occasion that he _is_ blessed by the state of unconsciousness, he hears her voice. She never says anything meaningful or sappy, she often says something ordinary, something about toast or traffic jams. But her voice is so real that he can even hear her breath as the words are formed. This is what jolts him from his sleep. He has decided they are auditory hallucinations – not uncommon for perfectly sane individuals, especially when in between sleep states, and also likely an offset of the drugs. Narcotics, Benzodiazepines, Antidepressants, Ethanol.

For the past few years, when he had the bed to himself, he had slept in the very centre of the mattress with his long limbs splayed out at odd angles. It took some time, but when she had started sharing the bed, subconsciously, his body had trained itself to make room for her. Even in the depths of sleep, his body would sense hers and accommodate her presence. Now, he lays at the very edge of the mattress with his legs straight and blood pooling at the tips of his fingers as his hand hangs down over the side. Apparently, it will take some time for his body to retrain itself – to no longer accommodate her presence. He rolls on his back and forces himself to lie in the centre of the bed. Hours later, he sleeps again. When he wakes in the morning, he finds that his body has returned to the edge of the mattress.

In a week, she is on his doorstep again.

'You didn't really think you'd get rid of me that easily, did you?' she says.

He says nothing. His expression is blank.

'I've been trying to put it out of my mind,' she says, 'in the hopes that you really don't want me. That would make it so much easier, but I can't stop thinking about it, so I need to know why. I need you to tell me why you want me to leave you alone before I can do it.'

He nods sadly, stands aside.

'You don't need me,' he says when they are inside, 'you're young, you need someone who can give you everything you want.'

'And what is it that I want?'

'You want someone who is fresh and new, not jaded and damaged. You want someone to have children with, a white picket fence…'

She shakes her head, her eyes glassy.

'No, you've got it all wrong. You know me Greg, you know I don't buy into that fairytale bullshit. I don't want _children!_ I don't want a fucking picket fence!'

'Maybe you think that now, but you'll change your mind. I'll piss you off, say stupid things…'

'You think you'll disappoint me?' she says, finding the crux of the matter immediately.

He is taken aback. That is it. He has hardly realised it himself. He is tired of disappointing people. He was a great disappointment to his father and to Stacy, and he is tired of thinking that he would need to change himself dramatically in order for anyone to accept and want him.

'I will,' he says.

'I don't think so,' she says, 'I don't think you will disappoint me, on the contrary, you have only ever impressed me. The only way you could disappoint me would be to cast this off without giving it a try. Let us see how you piss me off, let us see how we recover from it.'

'What is it that you want!' he shouts, 'a relationship? Do you understand how impractical that is Lee? How unrealistic? You and me… do you understand that it just _cannot_ happen!

'Why?' she says, 'I think it was going fine just the way it was. That's all I want… to keep going the way we were. You can call it what you like… a _relationship_, whatever, but I don't necessarily think it needs a label. It's just…us, you and me, together.'

He turns from her, shakes his head slowly. He says nothing. He is trying to compose the words he needs to send her away.

'This is all my fault,' she says, 'I lied. I lied to you, I lied to myself. I told you it was sex with no strings. At the time I convinced myself that it was too, just so that I could have you…'

Her mind is reeling. She is trying to find the words she needs to tell him how desperately she wants him. Love. She can feel the words forming behind her lips. _I love you. Don't do this, I love you._

She doesn't say it. The word is inadequate. It has been overused, overcommercialised – stripped of its meaning by pop culture. It doesn't even begin to explain how she feels.

'No,' he says, turning back to her, 'it's my fault too. I know there is no such thing. There are alwaysstrings.'

He notices that her expression lifts. This comment has given her hope. He needs to change tact.

'…and still I went through with it… I used you for sex,' he adds.

That is it – right on target. Her expression falls. He hates himself. The fact that he is doing this for her own good – for her protection, is not nearly as comforting as he would like.

'…and now it's too much. It's time to cut the strings. I want out,' he says finally.

'Really?'

'Yes.'

Slowly, she turns and leaves.

His body is sending him messages. Now in his sleep, he sees her. He sees the things they have done together. On this night, he sees the two of them in the state gallery. He sees her pulling him into the disabled toilet cubicle, forcing him against the door and kissing him amorously. He sees her skilfully unbuckling his belt and freeing his cock.

He hears himself saying 'in here?'

She nods and says, 'I _have_ to have you now.'

He sees her making him hard. He sees her expression – arousal, affection. Love?

He does not watch her work, he counts the square tiles on the wall.

'You're taking a while…are you close?' he hears her say.

He shakes his head. He is holding back.

'What do you want me to do?' she asks in her wicked sex voice.

'I…I…can't,' he hears himself splutter, 'we're in a public toilet…'

Her expression changes, softens. 'Of course you can,' she says, 'it doesn't matter where we are, it's just us, you and me. _You and me, together._ Look down, look at what I'm doing to you.'

He sees her jerking him off – her delicate hand making deft strokes.

'Ugh!'

'Look at me,' she says.

He sees her dark green eyes.

'Come,' she commands.

His orgasm wakes him. Not a bad way to be jolted back into reality, really, but with the increasing lucidity of consciousness, the initial pleasure is quickly replaced by anger – unadulterated frustration. His body has betrayed him. He looks down to see the sticky wetness of his semen seeping through the sheet. This is a reminder that he is only human. A mere man with weaknesses and needs.


	26. XXVI Betrayal

XXVI – Betrayal

Speculation, they kiss and they tell,

Misjudged and misquoted

-

Pure Pleasure Seeker, Moloko

She is beside herself. She has never felt this way in her life. She had always been an independent person, always able to receive and relinquish attention equally well – the kind of person who didn't mind, in fact, liked, having lunch alone, who needed at least an hour of private time a day. This is new to her. She is pining for him. What makes matters worse – they work in the same building. It seems like every time she feels slightly better, she sees him, or hears someone mention his name, and it is as if she is flawed – knocked off her feet. She has to pick everything up and start afresh. It has been a matter of weeks and yet it feels as if it has been years. She misses him terribly. She misses seeing his socks and his wrinkled unironed shirts discarded in random places over her apartment. She misses the way he talks with food in his mouth. She misses his jokes – his black sense of humour. She misses hearing him shout in anger, it never frightened her, it only ever turned her on. She misses the sound of his piano as he played every note perfectly for her. She misses the scratch of his unshaven chin against hers, and the strangely peaceful sound of his snoring in the early morning. She knows she could go on and on listing, but it only makes her more upset.

She finds herself asking if he even loved her. Like everyone, she has her Achilles heel. She is fragile in her own way. She doubts herself, she doubts the world. It seems pathetic on one hand, and perfectly logical on the other, but there were times when they were together and she would think: what does this man want with me? He is brilliant, erudite, sophisticated, complex. What does he want with _me_? Young, naïve, inexpert, inept – an amateur at life. She had wondered: if he wasn't a cripple, if he wasn't able to use that as an excuse, would he be more willing to approach women – less focused on the potential consequences. And if he had allowed himself choice, would he have bypassed her – would he have been compelled to find someone who was his intellectual match? Although, deep down she doesn't believe it, these are the kind of thoughts which tempt her to accept his comment: _'I used you for sex.'_ On the night she had heard them, these words had sliced through her flesh, leaving a clean, gaping wound. The wound had healed quickly though, because she had evidence to the contrary – she was sure of it. In some ways they were completely opposite, in some ways they were frighteningly similar, but regardless of the superficial mainstream 'match making,' philosophy of relationships, there was an undeniable magnetism. Tacit, inexplicable, visceral – able to transcend anything detectable by the basic five senses.

She looks at the photograph regularly. She has tried to stop herself, but it keeps happening. She has thought of disposing of it, in an effort to stop her strange obsession of rolling the draw out and looking at it for a few seconds, before returning it to its place. She has decided that she cannot do this however. She still harbours some hope that it is not over, and even if it is, she wants this photo as a keepsake, so she can look back on it when she is older and say 'that man was my lover,' because no matter how it ends, he was in her life, and their time together has changed her forever. _He_ has changed her forever. Love is hard on the system. It pulls you every which way. She had felt its effects in the past, but this time it had brought her to her knees. It is the strangest phenomenon. She cannot think of another thing that can be the source of both overwhelming ecstasy and devastating woe, often simultaneously. Theirs was a curious relationship. On the surface, it had been light, joking, 'causal,' yet underneath, their affair had been hot, intense, fervent. It was unspoken, but it was evident in the way they made love – the way his eyes burned into hers while their bodies were joined and neither one of them felt shy enough to look away.

Day in and day out, her mind is filled with thoughts of him. She had been so distracted by these thoughts that she had barely even noticed that she had missed her period. Her mind retrieves this small fact however, in order to match it with another, when one night, she is torn from her sleep. She jolts upright in her bed. She has felt something. In her belly. No, lower. Just below her navel. A flutter – soft and barely noticeable. She thinks. Yes, she definitely felt _something_, something she has never felt before. Her hand moves to this area.

This is when she _knows_.

_This_ will complicate things even further.

The timing is very unfortunate. She is overwhelmed by a sense of dread.

Her Monday has been relatively uneventful… until she meets Wilson in the cafeteria.

'Hi,' he says.

'Hi.'

'How are you?' he asks.

'Alright,' she says quietly.

'Hey, have you seen House around, I wanted to…'

'No, not recently. Not at all, in fact,' she says staring down as she slops mashed potato onto her plate.

Wilson regards her and notices the tears welling in her eyes. She looks up at him and half smiles. She has reached the end of the line. She pays for her meal.

'So, I'll see you around,' she says, forcing another smile before finding a table.

Wilson pays for his lunch and joins her.

'What's happened?' he asks, exasperated.

She looks at him.

'Um… he dumped me,' she says, blinking repeatedly in an attempt to compose herself.

'Dumped you?' he asks.

'Oh god!' she says quietly, rolling her eyes to the ceiling, trying to smile.

Her expression almost cracks.

'I don't really want to talk about it,' she says, breathing deeply, looking out through the window.

He watches her for a few seconds. Silence.

'It's just that, I'm not one of those women you know, who cries at the drop of the hat,' she says, 'I certainly never cry about men! I can't even remember the last time I cried… I think it was when my dog died when I was eighteen.'

He remains silent.

'But lately…fuck!' She shoves her fork into her mashed potato, blinking again and again.

She knows the hormones are partly responsible. Hormones surging though her rapidly changing body. She does not say this, of course.

'I just can't believe that I'm sitting here, having this conversation with you about boys and girls and relationship crap, like we're a couple of teenagers. I'm a therapist…I'm supposed to be stable. I'm supposed to be giving people advice about this bullshit…great, and now I'm venting to you…'

She rests her hand on her forehead and continues to play with her potato mash.

'You're only human. It happens to the best of us,' he says comfortingly.

She regards him. She has heard about the recent, official dissolution of his marriage.

'Yeah, I know,' she says calmly, 'it's just that, I've never been all gushy and girly about relationships, never. This is it…this is the first time, with Greg…'

'House is House…he is possibly the most difficult person in the world. Angst comes with the territory.'

She looks at him and forces a smile before looking back down at her plate.

'Have you spoken to him about it?' he asks.

'Not for a week. He's been doing a fabulous job of avoiding me.'

'What did he say when you spoke to him about it?'

'That he wants me to leave him alone, that he wants out… it was all going fine, it was great…and then it just jackknifed. Maybe it was me… I fell hard with him. Really hard, and maybe I was too clingy. I mean, I don't think I was cos I've never been that type of person, but then again, I've never been this far gone… maybe it was too much for him.'

'House is very skilled at self sabotage. It's like he's a masochist or something. If anything ever gets too good, he decides he shouldn't have it. It's his life goal to be miserable and he thought you would take that away from him.'

She looks at him. House has entered the cafeteria unnoticed. When he sees Wilson and Lee sitting together he exits the room and watches through the glass panel in the door.

'He would kill me for telling you this,' Wilson says, 'but… the last woman he was in love with… I mean _really_ in love with…he voluntarily sent her away.'

She nods. 'Stacy.'

'He told you about Stacy?'

This surprises him – it makes him realize the gravity of the situation. This was SERIOUS.

'Yeah.' She nods – her attention keenly focused on her mashed potato as if the news headlines are written in it.

From behind the door, House watches their mouths moving, contemplating what they might be saying. He watches as Wilson nods. The two sit in silence for a moment. Wilson touches her hand, and then she nods and stands. House turns and leaves.

He visits Wilson in his office later that afternoon.

'So… have a nice conversation with Dr Emerson?' House asks.

'I'm not playing this game with you. If you want to know anything, you'll have to ask her yourself.'

'Ah, so she said things that I might be interested in knowing?'

'Why, why should you be interested in anything she has to say? You dumped her! The only reason you would be interested in anything she said to me, would be if you were _madly_ in love with her!' Wilson shouts.

House raises his eyebrows. 'Maybe I'm concerned that you were swapping the dirt on me.'

'People are swapping the dirt on you all day long in this hospital, and you couldn't care less, but when people are talking about how much they like you… that gets your attention cos it's so damn rare!'

'Why Jimmy, you're on edge… are you missing Julie's home cooked meals?'

'Get out! I've got work to do.'

House stays in place. 'What did she say?'

Wilson sighs. 'She didn't want to talk but it's obvious that she's very much in love with you, and you've broken her heart. She said she's miserable. And she's angry with herself because she has never reacted this way in her life. So, you've made her miserable just like you…satisfied?'

'She said she's in love with me?'

Wilson pauses. He purses his lips, considering whether to respond.

'Not exactly, but it was obvious.'

'Well what did she say?'

'She said… _Oh Christ_, I can't believe I'm telling you this…'

'Yeah, yeah…I want less guilt, more facts.'

'She said she had…_fallen hard_.'

Silence.

'Look,' Wilson says, 'the both of you are moping around, depressed… why don't you do yourselves, and each other, a big favour and just get back together.'

'Yeah, it's that simple,' House says sarcastically.

'Well why is it so complex? Are the reasons for you to be apart greater than the reasons for you to be together?'

House turns and leaves.

Lee sits alone in a quiet courtyard outside the main building of the hospital. She is comforted by the constant, monotonous sound of water running through an ornate fountain and the seclusion offered by the high, vine covered stone walls. Usually, she avoids the sun – it makes her skin freckle – but in the cool, late afternoon air, the warmth on her skin is pleasant. The place is peaceful, private. She imagines that it was meant for patients, or family members – to sit and reflect. Accept. Deal. She knows she has to straighten herself out, make a decision. She has always been able to rationalise. She thinks – considers her options. She has four of them.

Tell him, and have an abortion.

Don't tell him, and have an abortion.

Tell him, and keep the baby.

Don't tell him, and keep the baby.

She rules out the last option immediately. That would not be fair. So, the choice has been narrowed to three options. She dreads the thought of having to tell him. She thinks she knows what he would say. _'It's your choice, I'll stand by you either way.'_ She does not want to hear him say this. She does not want him to feel obligated – responsible. She does not want him to feel as if he has to 'stand by' her. She does not want to feel as if she has trapped him. No, if she does this, she has to be willing to do it on her own. She had never imagined herself as a single mother, but she had never imagined herself as a _married_ mother either. She had never imagined herself as a mother. She had never imagined House as a father.

Wilson finds her.

'I spoke to House. He came to my office,' he says.

He sits beside her on the stone garden bench.

She nods, trying not to care. This is her lot.

'Maybe I should ask for a transfer. I know it seems immature, like I'm just running away from my problems, but I can't stand to see him everyday – I feel like I'm falling apart,' she says, with little expression to her voice.

'What would you say to Cuddy?' Wilson asks.

'I don't know. Maybe I should go back home, back to Australia.'

She had embraced this new place – the colder climate, different people, different buildings, different smells, different history. It was the change she had needed. But suddenly it had become too cold… foreign, alien. She misses the smells of home – salty, tangy. She misses the imposing heat, she misses the old faces. She misses the fact that at home, no matter how developed a city may be, the land is still there – inescapable heat, red earth, eucalyptus. Here, a city is just a city. The people were just people… until House.

Her eyes meet with Wilson's. He is not sure if he has ever seen a sadder expression – a big call, considering his job. He is overwhelmed by something. He acts on an impulse. Suddenly, he slides his arm around her waist and pulls her close to him. He moves so quickly that she doesn't have a chance to resist. He presses his lips to hers. The kiss – improper, wrong, sinful, yet strangely passionate, lasts for a good five seconds before she is able to push him back. She stares at him questioningly, breathing rapidly.

'I'm sorry!' he says, amazed with himself.

'Ah…' she is speechless.

Her attention is caught by a slight movement in her left field of vision. A figure – tall and lean, watching through the glass wall by the door, a slender wooden pole at its right side.

'Greg!' she exclaims.

He has seen the kiss. She stands, forgetting Wilson, rushing towards House.

The figure looks away, turns and limps quickly out of sight.

She realises she is trembling. Her hand covers her mouth.

'Oh my god. Oh my god…' she repeats these words quietly.

'Don't worry,' Wilson says, coming up beside her, 'I'll talk to him.'

He hurries through the door, leaving Lee standing, numb with shock.

Wilson barges into the conference room to find Chase, Forman and Cameron reclining around the table with coffee.

'Where's House?' he demands.

'What?' Forman asks, baffled by Wilson's obvious distress.

'WHERE'S HOUSE?' Wilson shouts.

'He just left,' Cameron says, 'we have no cases this afternoon, he seemed pretty keen to go home.'

'Shit!' Wilson exclaims.


	27. XXVII Slip

XXVII – Slip

Save me from fading afraid,

The tears of a fool on parade,

-

Pure Pleasure Seeker, Moloko

She approaches his front door slowly. She still hasn't decided whether she will knock. She hasn't decided what she will say if she does knock. _The kiss with Wilson was nothing._ _I'm pregnant with your baby. I honestly don't expect anything from you. I just think you have the right to know._ She hears the muffled sounds of Mozart from within. She is nervous. She knocks once – waits. No answer. She knocks louder, thinking he may not be able to hear her knocking for the music. Still no answer. She fells a pang of sadness at the thought that he has looked through the peep hole and is deliberately ignoring her. Wilson had informed her that his visit, earlier in the evening, had consisted of a very brief conversation through the door, which had ended in House commenting, as Wilson relayed: '_that he would break my nose a second time, if I didn't leave_.' Wilson had given the impression that the comment had been much less eloquent at the time of its original delivery, and heavily laden with F and C words. It is dark and bitterly cold out. There are no stars and only a slither of a moon – intermittently veiled and unveiled by thick clouds. She pulls her overcoat tightly around herself and knocks once more. After a moment, she turns on her heal. She takes one step away before her determination is renewed. She turns back to the door and tries the handle. Unlocked. She pushes the door open slowly, peaking her head inside. The room is dark. He is nowhere in sight.

'Greg?' she says, hesitantly.

She steps into the room and closes the door behind her. Her body adjusts to the warmth inside. She feels like and intruder. She walks slowly, calling his name gradually louder each time.

'Greg?'

She waits for her eyes to acclimatise. A hovel. There are books and papers all over – on the sofa, on the floor, on the television set. Empty bottles, ash trays, dirty bowls and dishes. There are various items of clothing draped over furniture – it appears as if a wardrobe has exploded. The answering machine is blinking. Messages from her. Messages from Wilson.

She trips on a stack of books as she peers into the kitchen.

'Hello?'

The kitchen is surprisingly clean. It has not been used to prepare a meal of late.

She feels dreadfully uncomfortable being here without him knowing. She feels as if he will appear any second, from one of the rooms, and shout at her to leave. She follows the music to find his ipod resting on the speaker dock on one of the book shelfs. She promptly turns it off, hoping the sudden silence will draw him out. No such luck. She moves to the piano. She notices that her photograph is missing from its space on the wall beside the window. This area appears to be the site of most activity. A bottle of Vicodin has been spilled over of the instrument. White powdery pills on a shiny black surface. There are some other pills too, smaller, round. Next to the pills stands an empty bottle of Scotch. The potent scent of alcohol fills her nostrils. She glances at her feet. She is standing in a puddle. The toes of her suede pumps have absorbed the liquid.

'Agh,' she mumbles quietly, carefully stepping out of the puddle.

Another bottle of Scotch lays smashed on the wood floor. The glass crunches under her shoes as she moves away. Cautiously, she makes her way down the hall.

'Greg?'

Still no answer. She notices the light coming from the bathroom. She stops in her tracks. She is suddenly overwhelmed with fear. Something is not right.

'Greg, its Lee,' she calls, her voice unsteady.

Eerie silence.

'Greg!' she calls loudly.

She is trembling. She moves closer. The door to the bathroom is open slightly. The room appears empty. She gently pushes the door to open it completely and gasps in horror.

Behind the door, he lays sprawled across the floor in a pool of vomit.

'GREG!...Greg….oh _fuck!_'

She moves swiftly to his side. She tries to clear her thoughts – tries to stop the hysteria from rising. She has no idea what to do. Her mind is reeling – she is trying to remember her first aid course. She lifts his wrist. She remembers not use her thumb. She presses two of her fingers hard into his flesh. She feels a faint pulse. She places a finger under his nose. He is breathing. She blinks repeatedly, trying to clear the blur of tears. She attempts to roll him onto his side, into what she thinks resembles the recovery position. She readies herself to check his mouth. He groans and his eyelids flicker.

'Greg? Greg honey…can you hear me?' she says hopefully.

No response.

'Look at me, open your eyes.'

He labours to open his eyes and fix them on her.

'What did you take?'

His eyes roll back and his eyelids begin to close.

'No…NO!'

She grabs him roughly, moving from a squatting position to sit flat on the floor. She drags him into her lap – attempts to hold him upright.

'Keep your eyes open…you've gotta tell me what you've taken,' she says frantically.

'Vicodin,' he murmurs faintly.

'Yeah I know, what else?'

'Zol…oft…' he adds, slowly.

'Fuck! Anything else?'

'Val..ium… Diazepam…'

His eyes close again.

'HEY!' she shouts.

Open.

'S…' he lurches forward and vomits, twice, before slumping towards the floor.

She lifts him again, trying to keep him upright. She reaches into her pocket – produces her cell phone. She pauses. Who will she call? If she calls 911, they will send an ambulance and take him to the nearest hospital – Princeton. If the situation wasn't as bad as she thought it was, he would be humiliated, his reputation ruined – he would never forgive her. This was an accident, she thinks, it had to be. She knew he had all sorts of pills in his medicine cabinet – he had acquired them from the hospital pharmacy – illegally. She thinks that, in his unstable condition, he must have lost track of what he had taken, and how many of each. She glances at him. His eyes are closed.

She shakes him. 'No, stay with me. You have to stay awake, look at me!'

Much to her relief, he opens his eyes again.

She thinks for a minute. She has an idea. She has a friend – a paramedic. This friend had always had a crush on her. She knows he will do this for her. She feels bad for taking advantage but she has no choice. Using her left arm to keep him upright, she dials the phone with her right hand. After three rings he answers.

'David, it's Lee,' she says frantically.

'Lee?'

'Yeah look…it's an emergency, I really need your help! I have this friend w…who's in trouble, but I can't call 911.'

'What's happened?'

'Look I can't really explain but I think he accidentally overdosed, he took a couple of things. I really need your help!'

'What? Lee…'

'David, _please_…'

'O…Ok.'

After gaining his commitment, she recites the address saying 'the door is unlocked, just come right in,' before dropping her phone to the floor.

His head is in her lap. He looks up at her. He thinks he is dying. He knows what it feels like – he died once before. He struggles to keep his eyes open, he feels himself slipping. She hugs him close to her. He closes his eyes again. Her tears fall – splashing his face. At this, his eyes blink open.

'Greg,' she sobs, 'you know you have to try and stay awake, right?'

He nods slightly.

'Tell me a story…' she says, 'tell me the story of how we met…'

He smiles faintly.

'Elevator…' he murmurs.

'Yeah,'

'There wasastorm,' he slurs.

'Umm hmm,' she says encouragingly.

She tries to prop him up.

'Your jeansss… hipster jeansss. You… beaut…iful…'

Her breathing has become erratic due to the intensity of her sobbing. Her hand moves to his face. Her thumb strokes his cheek.

'Do you think you can try and stand?' she asks.

His head rolls from side to side. She hooks her arms under his and begins to stand. She bends – tries to pull him up. He groans as if in pain. He is far too heavy for her. She slumps, sitting down again.

His head slips back into her lap. He watches her.

There are many things to say. She doesn't know which is the most pertinent, or the most appropriate. _I'm sorry._ _I love you. I'm pregnant._

Out of all of her options, she decides to vocalise the most fundamental fact.

'Greg,' she sobs, gasping for air, 'you're my dearest friend, you're… everything…I don't know what I'd do if…'

She cannot say it. She is utterly distraught. Though her face is swollen and tear stained, it is still beautiful. He knows it is selfish but he is grateful when he thinks this will be the last sight he will ever see. Her image blurs and darkens. His eyes close.


	28. XXVIII Error

XXVIII – Error

**Drug overdose, **_def_: when a chemical substance (i.e. drug) is ingested in quantities and/or concentrations large enough to overwhelm the homeostasis of a living organism, causing severe illness or death.

He sits slumped against the bath. His shirt is saturated with his own vomit. He has never hated himself more. This is the single most stupid thing he has _ever_ done. It was an accident, an error, although he remembers a moment where he was glad to think he was dying. That was – until he saw Lee's face. He had binged before, but this time, in an attempt to numb the pain – both physical and emotional, he had taken _just_ too much of everything. It was the wrong mix. A potentially lethal cocktail. Upon his arrival home, he had taken two of everything, frantically swigging Scotch from the bottle to wash down the bitter pills. Wilson had called – he had popped more Vicodin, more Diazepam. Lee had called – more Vicodin, more Diazepam, more Valium. Wilson had arrived on the doorstep – more Vicodin, more Valium. Lee had called again – he had swilled half a bottle of Scotch, before hurling it across the room where it had smashed against the leg of the piano.

He remembers half stumbling, half dragging himself to the bathroom.

After that, he remembers nothing…until he heard Lee's voice.

This one careless accident will cost him – his dignity and any ounce of self-respect he had left.

He listens to the voices outside the room.

'Good thing you found him when you did,' the male voice – David, says quietly, 'any later and… well…'

Silence.

'I've pumped his stomach. He's going to be alright now,' David continues, 'maybe you should keep an eye on him.'

Silence.

'Do you think he meant to do it? Is he suicidal?' David asks.

She hesitates before saying 'no.'

She is not sure of this answer. She thinks of the Zoloft. She tells herself it must have been an accident. But he is a doctor, a _brilliant_ doctor – he shouldn't have accidents like this. Although, she thinks, he wasn't in a right state of mind.

House hears her sobbing. He hears David's soothing words.

'I'm so sorry…' she says, 'and so thankful, I didn't know what to do…'

'It's ok,' says David, 'I'm going to go now, alright?'

'Thankyou.'

He hears the front door close. He waits. After a moment, she returns to the bathroom. He watches as she enters. Neither of them say a word. She sits beside him. She takes his hand in hers. He allows her to do this. He is numb – overwhelmed with anger, grief and guilt. They stay still and silent for a good time. Eventually, she stands and pulls his arms. She helps him to his feet. He towers over her, staring groggily. She grabs the bottom of his t-shirt and tugs it up. He pushes her hands away and removes his shirt. She holds him steady. Her hands move to his belt. He watches – confused by this strangely sexual moment. It has been a while. She sends his pants to the floor and slides her arm around his waist so that he can hold her for support as he steps out of them. She continues to hold him as she reaches into the shower and turns the taps.

'You don't have to shower me,' he spits angrily, 'I can do it myself.'

She moves away from him – watches to make sure he can stand with enough balance before she leaves the room.

He emerges from the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, to find her sitting on the sofa. She is perched on the edge, nervously biting her fingernails. He enters his bedroom and emerges a moment later wearing his pyjamas. She looks at him.

'Go,' he says quietly.

She stands and removes her overcoat, throwing it on the sofa. She shakes her head as she moves closer to him.

'I mean it Lee, get the fuck out.' He hates himself for using these words.

She walks past him and enters the bedroom. He turns – watches her. She walks over to the far side of the bed, kicks her shoes off and sits with her knees under her. He leans on the doorframe.

'I don't need your pity. I'd rather you left,' he says coldly.

'Well too fucking bad!' she replies matter-of-factly, 'you scared me half to death tonight… you have absolutely no leverage. I'm staying.'

At this, she turns away from him and lays her head on the pillow. He waits a moment, slips into bed and turns the light off. They lie in silence, turned away from one another, deep in thought.

Sleep is out of the question.

Tonight – she had thought she had lost him. _Really_ lost him. When he had closed his eyes, just before David had arrived, she had thought he had gone. In that moment, it was as if the world had paused. As if nothing, or no-one else existed to acknowledge it. Deathly silence. Stillness. Nothing but the white walls, white tiles, white porcelain, white towels. Nothing but the harsh fluorescent light targeting her, pinpointing her. Helpless, hopeless. De-realised, de-personalised.

Upon his arrival, David had had to shake her, to get her focus on him – to acknowledge his presence. She had been unable to speak – unable to inform him. He had ushered her out of the room and then she had been able to thaw. Slowly.

In the past week, she had been considering the fact that her baby may not have a dependable father. She hadn't, however, considered the fact that her baby may not have an _existent_ father. She had not considered this, at least, until she held him in her arms and felt him slipping. Slipping into non-existence.

She cannot tell him what she had come to tell him. Not now. It would not be right. It would not be fair.

She cannot tell him: _guess what, I'm pregnant. Ironic isn't it? You're trying desperately to get me out of your life and now I spring this on you. Bad timing, I know. Unfortunate, yes – but a fact, nevertheless. Cruel twist of fate? You bet. Ridiculous isn't it? Do you feel like the protagonist in one of your favourite cheesy soap operas? I certainly do._

He does not know that the woman lying beside him – the woman he loves and cares so much for, lies with their child growing inside her.

What he thinks he knows, is that the woman lying beside him – the woman he loves and cares so much for, has been _fucking_ his best friend.

He cannot clear the images from his head. The real image of the kiss – of James Wilson's arm curled around her protectively, of her apparent receptiveness. And then there are the images that his jealous mind has created – the images of her naked body against James Wilson's – of her clutching James Wilson's arms and arching in pleasure, as she had once done with him.

It makes sense really, he thinks. On the first day he had met her, he had joked and teased Wilson, suggesting that the two of them would end up together. Why not? They are a better match, Wilson would be more caring. Wilson is more practiced at the relationship game – more skilled. It is his own fault, he thinks. He basically told her that he didn't love her. He practically pushed her to it. He still loves her just as much. But what a violent strike – the two most valued and treasured people in his life. The only two people he thought he could trust irrevocably. Both lost – in one single moment.

Now he is alone. _Completely_ alone – and yet, she still lies beside him.

Hours pass. He turns to look at her. She lies with her knees tucked up against her chest. Her silhouette is framed in the dim light cast by the streetlamp outside the window. He notices that she is trembling.

Trembling from the cold. Trembling from the shock.

Guessing she is asleep, he lifts his scratchy brown blanket over her resting body.

She is not asleep.

He wakes to the sound of his alarm clock.

9:19.

After a moment, the facts of the previous night come flooding back. He sits abruptly and searches the bed beside him. She is gone. He is simultaneously relieved and disappointed.

He makes a covert visit to her office.

'When I woke up…you were gone….' he says.

She nods.

He looks around the room before looking back at her.

'Thanks,' he says suddenly, 'for not…'

He knows she will never tell a soul.

'I'm just _so glad_ you're alright,' she says, reaching her arm out and touching his gently.

He watches her hand. He does not respond to this touch.

'I want you to know that it was an accident,' he says.

She nods – glad to hear this.

'It should never have happened,' he continues, 'it was _stupid_ and…'

He stops short when she slips her arm around him and rests her head on his chest. Shutting his eyes tightly, he allows himself to enjoy the brief moment before he touches her shoulder, pushing her gently away from him.

He moves towards the door.

'Greg.'

He glances at her.

'Can I come and see you?' she asks.

He looks back to the door. 'No.'

'I'm…' she starts. _Pregnant?_ No. Not now. She will wait to tell him.

'…leaving,' she says.

He pauses, hand on the doorknob. He doesn't turn. He doesn't speak.

'I'm going back home, I've accepted a position in Sydney,' she adds.

There it is. Sure, it happened after the fact, but it happened. Even if they had stayed together, a few more months and she would have sprung the same thing on him. He tells himself he has made the right decision.

'I thought you may as well hear about it now, from me…' she says.

He leaves.


	29. XXIX Loss

XXIX – Loss

And suppose I never met you  
Suppose we never fell in love  
Suppose I never ever let you kiss me so sweet and so soft  
Suppose I never ever saw you  
Suppose we never ever called

-  
Fidelity - Regina Spektor

Nature has made the decision for her.

Blood.

That is all she remembers. Blood – copious amounts of blood.

She had managed to contact Wilson before she had passed out in her living room. He had called an ambulance. He had stayed by her side the entire time. Now, he holds her hand as the doctor tells her that she has had a miscarriage. The embryo had been six weeks old.

He observes her cold, emotionless expression at learning this news.

'You're in perfect health, otherwise,' the doctor says, 'there appears to be no obvious medical reason for this miscarriage. There is some evidence to suggest that spontaneous abortion can occur in times of high stress. Can you think of any significant events that have happened recently?'

She clenches her jaw – staring forward. She does not look at either of the men. She shakes her head.

Wilson knows nothing of the events of that unspeakable night. He will never know.

'She's had a hard couple of weeks,' Wilson says to the doctor, before looking at Lee sympathetically.

She feels pathetic.

'Are you…' the doctor starts, before correcting himself, aiming to be as considerate as possible, '_were_ you… the father?'

'No!' Wilson says abruptly, before calming himself and delivering his answer in a quieter, more restrained manner, 'no.'

He had meant no offence by this hasty reply, only, the notion had startled him. The memory of the kiss is still fresh, and so is his penitence. He would hate for such a rumour to move through the hospital – House's wrath would be unbearable. The man is already staring daggers. Wilson is not sure if he will ever be forgiven.

'Her partner – the father, he left her,' Wilson says, 'and not in the best circumstances… it has been difficult. Do you think that could have…?'

'Possibly,' the doctor says, nodding his head.

She knows another possibility. On that night she had found him – she had felt a part of herself die. It was a sure feeling. A part of her _had_ died – literally. A part of _them_. Their child.

She blames herself. If only she had told him earlier, things may have been different. He may not have done what he had done.

The doctor regards her – sensing despondency, nonacceptance, trauma.

'If you would like,' he says softly, 'I could arrange for someone to speak to you… about how you are feeling, we have excellent psychologists at the PPTH…'

She scoffs – marvelling at the irony. She presses her fist against her mouth. She can taste the salty tears in the corner of her lips. Though she stares forward, she can sense Wilson shaking his head by her side.

'I'll give you some time by yourselves then,' the doctor says gently, before leaving the room.

After a long moment of silence Wilson asks: 'how are you feeling…?'

Stupid question, but somehow, he is unable to find more appropriate words. It is not as if he isn't well versed in dealing with grief reactions. It is as much a part of his daily routine as cleaning his teeth. But this is different. He is not objective this time. He cares. _Really_ cares.

The question is irrelevant. She hasn't even heard it. She turns to him, clutches his arm.

'Please don't tell Greg,' she says, desperately.

She does not want this to be the defining moment. She does not want this to bring them together.

'Wha…?' he stutters.

'_Please.'_

'O…ok, it's not my place…' he says.

'No,' she replies, 'I won't tell him either. I don't _ever_ want him to know.'

'Bu…'

'I don't even want him to know that I've been admitted to this hospital as a patient… do you think he will find out? Can he find out?'

'I…'

'He can't know about this,' she continues.

'Why?' Wilson asks, intrigued by her determination to conceal this.

She looks at him with her large, worried eyes.

'He didn't even know I was pregnant,' she says, 'I don't want him to feel… bad… culpable. I don't want him to feel as if he is tied down.'

Wilson is astounded. She will not even allow herself to grieve in this moment – her primary concern is House – protecting him. He is angry at this. He thinks that she is the one who needs protection.

She appeals to him once more. 'Please?'

'Ok… yeah, ok,' he agrees, patting her hand.

Of course, this is futile. Secrets cannot be kept from House.

'Lee was admitted to this hospital as a patient,' House says, barging into Wilson's office, confronting the man for the first time since he had witnessed the kiss, 'you signed the admission form. What happened?'

'You,' Wilson hisses, pointing his pen at House, 'have no right to know!'

'Fine,' House says, turning to the door, 'you know I'll find out anyway, the next clue is to discover which ward she was admitted to…'

This is true. He could discover this information in a matter of minutes.

'She was pregnant,' Wilson concedes.

House turns back to the angry man who is now standing behind his desk, hands on his hips.

'Right,' House spits, matter-of-factly, as if he has just confirmed something, 'she's good isn't she? V_ery_ hard to resist. How long _had_ you two been _fucking_ behind my back?'

'WHAT!…how could you think that?' Wilson shouts, his face red, veins bulging at the collar of his shirt, 'that woman is _absolutely_ in love with you. She was pregnant with _your_ baby, you ASSHOLE! She miscarried!'

Of course he knows it was his baby. He never _really_ believed that she would sleep with Wilson. He had only entertained and nourished this idea in an effort to further justify their separation. Even so, the hurt he had experienced when attempting to convince himself of this lie, was real and raw.

Wilson notices that the colour has drained from House's complexion. In all the years he has known the man, he has never seen such an expression on Gregory House's face. Sheer devastation.

'She wasn't going to tell me?' House asks, his voice small.

'Well, can you blame her?' Wilson shouts, 'you've sent her a pretty clear message that you don't want anything to do with her – that she meant nothing more to you than one of your hookers. She probably felt like she _couldn't_ tell you. I found her lying on the floor, _bleeding, _House! She called me because _she couldn't call you! _She couldn't rely on you!'

House swallows hard. The words smash into him. _I found her lying on the floor, bleeding. She called me because she couldn't call you!_ He blinks back tears.

'And you know what else?' Wilson says harshly, 'I think she's trying to protect you. She doesn't want you to be hurt by this – so she's taking it on herself. She's taking it _all_ on her own!'

Wilson is remembering the arrival of the ambulance. Lee had been significantly distressed and so she had been sedated. As she was succumbing to the effects of the gas, she had clutched at Wilson's shirt and whimpered: _'Greg…Greg?'_ He remembers hanging his head. He had felt ashamed on behalf of his friend – remembers losing respect for him at that moment.

'You don't deserve Lee,' Wilson says, against his better judgement.

He is able to see the hurt in House's eyes, but he continues despite this. 'I feel sorry that she ever met you.'

House barely hears these words. His perception of his world has changed. A blur. Buzzing confusion. _Wow, you've really screwed up this time Greg,_ he tells himself_. You are a monumental fuck-up. She can't trust in you. She can't rely on you. She can't count on you. She can't confide in you. _

He leaves the room.


	30. XXX Damage

XXX – Damage

Come on and say you're sorry,  
Real sorry for the trouble that you caused  
Can't you see all this love?  
Can't you see all this love?

-

December - Regina Spektor

She had not expected to react the way she has. She had never wanted children, never wanted to be pregnant. She had imaged herself as a career woman, never as a mother, and yet she feels an overwhelming sense of loss. This was different. This had been _his_ baby. She had been racked with indecision, she had told herself she had a choice, but in the back of her mind she knew she really did not. She could never have intentionally terminated the pregnancy. In effect, she would have intentionally killed _his_ baby. _Their_ baby. She would have killed another part of them – of the connection between them. She had made a decision – she was going to keep their baby.

But nature had other plans.

She sleeps.

For days on end, she sleeps.

On this day, when her eyes flick open, he is seated on the antique chaise-longue at the foot of her bed. His presence is quiet, unobtrusive – he had simply been watching her sleep. Her expression crumples immediately when she registers his image. She covers her face – the tears flow freely. He moves to sit on the bed.

'I lost our baby Greg,' she sobs quietly.

'I know,' he says softly, lying beside her.

He has questions, but he does not ask them. _Why did you feel that you couldn't tell me? Did you ever intend to tell me? Did you consider the fact that I might be hurt by this? Are you aware of how much this death has devastated me?_ He knows his actions have stripped him of the right to ask these questions.

She would be surprised and saddened to know that had she informed him of the pregnancy, he would have been elated. He would have been relieved – he would have had the perfect excuse to allow himself to have her.

'I'm sorry,' he says, kissing her forehead and stroking her hair, 'I'm so, _so_ sorry.'

He wants to tell her how much he loves her. He wants to tell her how much he wishes they could have had the baby. He wants to promise never to hurt her again. He does not say these things. He cannot make promises. The situation has been blown out of proportion. It has turned into an utter catastrophe. He had tried to make a clean break – to minimise the damage, but in doing so, he had achieved the exact opposite. The damage had occurred because he had attempted to interfere with the force of love – to resist it – to alter its natural trajectory.

He does this still.

He sits up, pats her thigh – gesturing for her to sit up also.

She complies.

'Go and run yourself a bath,' he says, 'I'll make you something to eat…what do you want?'

She shakes her head.

'You have to eat something,' he says with soft, caring sternness.

He waits a moment, watching her. He turns and lowers his feet to the floor – enters the bathroom. She hears the rush of water against the open drain. She hears him drop the plug in. She hears the squirt of liquid soap. His head appears in the doorway. She watches him from the bed. He regards her for a moment before his cane and right leg lunge forward and he strides across the room and through the door, out towards the lounge area.

He searches her pantry and fridge. Like his own, they are merely stocked with staple items. Bread, coffee, sugar, dry pasta, milk, butter, jam. In the freezer and in the fridge, he manages to find two luxury items – bacon and a carton of eggs. He cracks two eggs into a bowl, along with some butter and milk and uses a fork to create a yellow froth. The bowl goes in the microwave and the burner on the stove top is ignited.

He is sure to tidy the kitchen when he has finished, and returns to the bedroom to find her seated on the bed – freshly bathed, with her knees tucked under an old stretched t-shirt, and her hair tied in a knot. He presents her with his creation. Scrambled eggs and bacon – her favourite. Her comfort food. She smiles as she takes the plate from him. Her knees appear from under the t-shirt, and her legs cross beneath her. Her stomach awakens to the scent of the warm meal, and he watches as she hungrily devours mouthfuls of fluffy egg.

When she discards the empty plate on her bedside table, he lies with her again.

He holds her, he comforts her, he tells her everything will be fine, but he knows her perception of _fine_ differs from his own.

The feel of his breath on her face and the weight of his arm draped over her fragile frame soothes her, makes her feel safe, lulls her back to sleep.

In her mind, everything will be fine because he is lying with her now.

In his mind, everything will be fine because when she wakes, he will be gone. The only way he can guarantee that he will never hurt her again, is to leave. Wilson was right, he does not deserve her. He seems cursed to repeatedly hurt those he loves.

He knows he is responsible for the latest event. He had found and read the notes on her medical file. _Spontaneous abortion, no apparent medical reason – potentially induced by significant environmental stressors._

He _murdered_ their baby. His stupidity had caused this – his wallowing in self pity. Witnessing his overdose had sent her body into a state of shock and _killed_ their baby.

When she wakes, she is not surprised to find that he has gone. The plate has disappeared from her bedside table, and has been replaced with a note. She reads his elegant handwriting. He has apologised, he has explained, he has clarified. Firmly, but tenderly, he has told her not to contact him. She accepts this for the moment. This is his loss too. He needs time and so does she.


	31. XXXI Addict

XXXI – Addict

It is Friday, but she is not at work. She has resigned. There is a staff party tonight and although she dreads attending, she knows it will be the best opportunity to say goodbye to everyone.

She has a new friend. A red Australian cattle-dog pup. She has named him Blue, because she likes the simple irony of the fact that the name is Australian slang for redhead, and because she was feeling particularly blue when she adopted him. He was an impulse purchase, but one which, so far, she does not regret, even though he will have to be stored away in a cage under the plane if she leaves for home in a week, and even though he has chewed a pair of gold Jimmy Choo stilettos which she was particularly fond of. His misbehaviour is somewhat distracting. He makes her smile at least, when she arrives home and he greets her with an ecstatic display of tail-wagging and jumping.

With his snout resting neatly on his paws, he watches her from the sofa as she packs. She does this even though she has not fully committed herself to the move.

She is undecided.

She thinks of a philosophy class she had taken at university. According to the Buddhist definition, love – _pure_ love, is the simple desire for a person's happiness. It is characterised by detachment – the unselfish interest in a person's welfare. Pure love is unconditional, it requires courage and acceptance and is free of the selfish desire to be near to the person. _Conditional_ love, on the other hand, is characterised by selfish attachment – an exaggerated fear of separation.

_If you really love something, you will let it go._ Afterall, in this case, she had promised that she would.

But another side of her screams _NO!_ She feels as if she must fight. She cannot lay down and accept this. But who and what would she be fighting for? Would she be fighting for herself? Fighting for attachment – the selfish need to be with him. She wants him to be truly happy – even if that means that she will never see him again. But she is unsure whether their separtion _would_ make him happy. In this case, would she be fighting for him? Fighting for something that he himself is too tired and wounded to fight for?

She has one week to decide. Regardless of this fact, she packs. Slowly. It is only natural that such a mundane task would leave her open to distractions, but she cannot make herself do it. It is depressing. She wonders if she could hire someone to do it for her. Surely. You can hire people to do anything for you these days.

'Fuck this…' she says aloud, dumping a pile of books into a cardboard box, 'let's go for a walk Blue.'

The pup's ears prick up. Walk. He has already learned this word. He knows it means good things.

**………**

Late afternoon at the hospital.

Wilson has finally found House alone in his office. He opens the door and approaches the ominous figure of a man who sits slumped in the chair behind the desk, eyes cold with anger. The men regard one another and Wilson waits a moment before talking.

'I know so much else has happened since, but I want you to know that _I_ kissed her. She didn't kiss me, she was an unwilling participant.'

House had suspected as much. 'Fuck you,' he spits.

'Good. I deserved that,' Wilson says calmly.

'Why did you do it?' House asks, snatching an oversized tennis ball off his desk and squeezing it hard.

'Christ, I don't know,' Wilson replies, 'you should have seen her face… because I guess I thought that was what you should have done.'

'Oh, so you decided to stick your tongue down her throat on my behalf? Well it's not really the same is it?'

Silence.

'How long did you know?' House asks quietly.

'What?'

'That she was pregnant. Did you know when you kissed her?'

'No, I only guessed when I found her in her apartment.'

Silence.

'Damn you, you said you didn't love her,' Wilson says, running his fingers through his hair.

'I _never once_ said that!' House growls.

'You implied it.'

'But you didn't believe it.'

'No, but I was pissed off…' Wilson says, '…fed up with these stupid games you always play.'

They stare at each other – furious. The tension is palpable.

'Look, I'm sorry,' Wilson says, 'it was a stupid thing to do. It meant nothing, really, it was just my ridiculous impulsive, naive attempt to console.'

'You idiot. You have no self control,' House says.

Wilson nods. 'You're right.'

This time, the silence is lighter.

'Can we go to the staff party and get wasted now?' Wilson says, 'I'm buying.'

House nods once and stands.

He takes his cane. 'I aughta break this over your ass,' he says.

They exit the room. House has forgiven his friend, and yet he will let him stew in the guilt for a while longer. He has forgiven him, because he is thankful that this man was able to support Lee in his absence. He has forgiven him, because he genuinely believes the claim that the kiss meant nothing. Wilson is a charmer. From a young age he had learned that kissing girls was a good way to get them to stop crying. In fact, it is a good way to get them to do all manner of things. Old habits die hard.

**………**

The foyer of the hospital has been transferred into a function area. The two men sit at a table and Wilson murmurs something to House about going to the bar, and 'do you want another drink?' He isn't listening. He grunts absently. His eyes remained fixed on her, sitting up at another bar table. She is sipping her drink and chatting. _He_ is whispering in her ear. _He_ is the new paediatrician. _He is_ about ten years younger than House. _He_ is sickeningly handsome. _He_ is a jerk-off. His stupid face lights up like a kid at Christmas whenever she responds to him. House clenches his jaw as he watches the jerk-off's hand rest on her knee before moving smoothly over her tights, and further up the inside of her thigh. He is waiting for her to register surprise and smack the jerk-off's hand away, but she doesn't. In fact, she hardly seems to notice. She continues talking to the woman beside her as _he_ continues to feel her up. _Looks like a thirteen year old having his first feel,_ House thinks to himself. _He's probably gonna cum in his pants._

Even if only for the shortest time, this woman had been the mother of his baby, and now this piece of shit has his hands all over her – no respect, no genuine appreciation. The jerk-off is leering and groping and drooling. He doesn't even know what she has been through – wouldn't even care. He just wants a quick fuck. House hardly realises, but he has lurched forward off of the bar stool and is making his way to the group he has been monitoring. Lee raises her head and spots him – an expression of concern breaking across her face. House stops in front of the table, leans forward – menacing, incensed, drunk.

'Get your hands off her,' he says in a low, threatening voice.

'What?' the man asks, bewildered.

'I said,' House raises his voice, 'get your fucking hands _off_ of her!'

His hand is balling into a tight fist, fingernails piercing the skin on his palms.

'Doctor House…' Lee says pleadingly, shaking her head ever so slightly – communicating the message: _stop before you do something you'll regret_.

House pauses, grits his teeth. At this moment, Wilson appears by his side and places a firm hand on his shoulder.

'Come here, I've got someone I want you to meet,' Wilson says, squeezing his friend's shoulder tightly and directing him away from the table.

Lee exhales the breath she had been holding.

'What was that all about?' the paediatrician asks as they watch the two men move away.

'Ah, he…' Lee starts, desperately thinking of an explanation.

'He's crazy, mad…!' the woman, a nurse, says, 'a fucking drug addict, he's probably high, got no idea what he's doing or who he's talking to…'

The nurse sips champagne, grinning at Lee. She forces a smile.

'Why do I have the feeling I just averted a disaster?' Wilson says, as he and House return to their table.

House says nothing.

They sit and House snatches the beer that Wilson had placed on the table as he turns away from her, looking to Wilson for a distraction. It is no good. He has started talking about the new process for signing in at the clinic.

House skulls his beer as he stares inattentively.

'Whoa,' Wilson says, interrupting his own train of speech.

He eyes House, who places the empty glass on the table – making no effort to do it softly.

'I think maybe its time to go,' Wilson says, standing.

He stares at House who meets his gaze and nods.

They sit in silence as Wilson drives. House stares forward, the alcohol causing thoughts to move slowly though his mind. In his state of intoxication, he is less strict then he has been of late, when it comes to censoring thoughts of her. _She'll let him go home with her tonight, _he thinks, as he stares at the red light that has caused them to come to a stop. _She's going to let him inside her apartment, inside her bedroom, inside her._ The red light is replaced by a green one – they are moving again. _He's going to fuck her._ He feels his jaw clenching.

They have come to a complete stop now. He sighs and leans forward, resting his forehead on the palm of his hand.

'Hey, are you ok?' Wilson asks.

House glances through the open window of the car. They are outside his place. He looks at Wilson and nods once before opening the car door. His head spins as his feet make contact with the pavement and he has to lean forward heavily on his cane. He pauses for a brief moment – waiting for the spinning sensation to subside.

Wilson watches him.

'House,' Wilson calls.

He turns.

'You love her. If you let her get on that plane, you're an _idiot_.'

House shakes his head as he turns to combat the stairs.

'Is this really how you want to leave things?' Wilson calls after him, 'does she know that you love her, or does she think she was just your whore?'

'_Don't say that!_' House says harshly, turning back to Wilson, who is glad to have elicited such a passionate response.

'Just don't fuck this up like you did with Stacy…' Wilson says.

'And don't do anything _stupid_ while you're drunk!' he adds finally, holding his finger on the button to raise the passenger-side window – signalling the end of this heated exchange.

Slowly, House begins to move to his front door. Wilson watches him, and when he has determined that his friend is sober enough to climb the steps, he drives away.

House waits until Wilson's car has disappeared over the rise at the end of the street and he starts to walk.

He walks six blocks to her apartment.

He is expecting to see her standing at her door. He is expecting to see her opening her door, and entering her apartment. He is expecting to see _the jerk-off _following her inside.

He reaches her place. She _is_ at her door, but she is alone.

He climbs the steps awkwardly, standing beside her. She is surprised to see him.

'What are you doing here Greg?' she says quietly, rummaging in her handbag for her keys.

She does not look at him. It hurts.

'So…no Doctor _Feel-Good_?' he asks, his tone angry.

'What?' she asks, looking up from her handbag, confused.

'That guy who was practically dry-humping you,' he says, 'I was certain he was in – pretty sure he was too.'

She proceeds to unlock her door. She throws him a glance. For the first time, she feels anger towards him. The truth is, she hasn't even considered sex in weeks. She is flat. It is as if she has lost her ability to feel. Emotionally, physically… she is numb. Blunt, blunt, blunt.

'Go home Greg' she says sadly.

_Click_ goes her final lock. She pushes her door open.

He watches her. She is about to enter the apartment and close the door on him. This is his doing – he has denied himself access to her.

But they belong together – he knows they belong to each other.

She owns a piece of him. She _is_ a piece of him. The best piece – the most valuable, functional, beautiful piece.

He is addicted to her, and right now, the withdrawal symptoms are intolerable.

In this moment, he is consumed. Depravity. Obsession.

Without much thought, he moves abruptly towards her, grabbing her roughly and drawing her close to him, kissing her hard on the mouth. She is startled by his sudden movement and pulls away from him, saying 'No Greg!' rather sternly, but he pulls her back to him and kisses her again. She is rigid, her arms straight by her sides. Even though she is wearing stilettos, he towers over her, and has to lean down to bring his face close to hers, kissing her forcefully. Her hands move to his chest, her palms flat as she attempts to push him away. Anyone who would have witnessed this scene from the street would have sworn she was being attacked.

'Stop it!' she says, tears in her eyes, 'what are you doing? - you don't want me!'

She sees the sadness in his expression before he presses his lips against hers again, kissing her desperately – like a junky needing a hit. She senses this and submits. He manoeuvres her roughly, pushing her inside her apartment. He is surprised to find a rather angry dog barking furiously, and has to dodge the animal, whilst simultaneously handling Lee – not an easy task in his state of inebriation. He is so much larger than her and so much stronger than anyone would imagine, given his status as a cripple. He grips her arm tightly, his fingers digging into muscle as he pulls her into her bedroom, slamming the door closed with his foot in order to shut the dog out. She is silent now as he throws her onto her bed. He notices her expression: bewilderment, confusion, and for a minute he thinks to himself, _is this rape?_ He knows she loves him, he is certain of it, and so he resolves to continue unless she tells him to stop it once more. After all, this is familiar, this is what they do with one another.

He pulls her shoes off and throws them at the floor. Frantically, he parts her thighs and rips her tights and her underwear from her. She watches him passively. She does not object to these actions, she is only confused. She does not know why he is doing this. Is he motivated by love, or just blind, drunken frustration? She thinks it might be both. She will let him do whatever it is he needs to, and try to reason with him after. He kneels before her as he pulls at his belt. He is already hard. The mere sight of her had done that to him, and now the smell and feel of her is sending familiar jolts of pleasure through his body. He pushes his jeans and shorts to his knees and parts her legs again. He is addicted to her. He doesn't just want her, he _needs_ her – needs her like he needs his Vicodin pills. Their eyes meet. He pauses – as if waiting for permission, or waiting for her to tell him to stop, waiting for her to shout at him to get out. She doesn't. She only watches him sadly. He takes this as a cue and lowers himself on her, his mouth on her throat. He feels her pulse beneath his lips and her scent fills his head – spicy rose perfume. He enters her and thrusts into her hard, slamming his cock into the taut muscles inside her until his orgasm is able to relieve the pain in his mind, much in the same way the Narcotics are able to relieve the pain in his leg. Even in his frenzy, in his drunken state, he cannot help but notice that she doesn't hold him. It is not the same. He needs her to hold him. He needs to feel her arms around his body as they had been before.

He moves off of her, leaving a sticky mess. He tugs his pants on and turns away from her, sitting hunched on the edge of the bed. The relief has lifted the veil of insanity and now he is disgusted with himself. His elbows rest on his knees and his hands cover his face. She is so delicate and pristine and yet he threw her onto the bed and used her like a dumpster – to cum in her and dispose of his pain. After all she has been through, he had only been concerned with the alleviation of his own pain. He did exactly what he had imagined that piece of shit paediatrician would have liked to do – he had a quick fuck.

He has done it again. He has hurt her again.

This is the final straw.

He feels the warmth of her hands on his back, moving slowly. He thinks he is undeserving of this. Her hands move to his chest as she hugs him from behind, kissing the nape of his neck.

She holds him. Finally, she holds him.

She knows she needs to tell him how much she cares for him. She thinks the words are not enough, but she says them regardless. She hopes he will understand.

'I love you. I'm so glad you came back to me,' she says quietly, 'I _love_ you. I love you. I love you.'

And he cries. He cannot believe it, but he cries. She does not move. She stays perfectly still, her ear resting on his spine, and of course, this is the best thing she could do.

He stands suddenly – tears himself from her embrace.

'You have to go,' he says, 'get on that plane, and go home.'

'What…Greg?'

He seizes her arms – looks into her eyes. He tells her that he loves her with his expression. He cannot tell her with words – it would give her false hope.

'This is it,' he says, 'this time, it really is the end.'

'No…no, Greg…' she says, 'darling I know we've gotten ourselves into a terrible mess, but we can fix it.'

'No…' he says, turning from her – distraught, 'it's not _our_ mess, it's _my_ mess, it's my fault!'

'It's _our_ mess,' she says pointedly, 'and _we_ are going to get through it.'

He shakes his head. He seems determined, and it makes her think: maybe this _is_ what he wants, maybe it is what he needs. Being in love with her has caused him great pain and torment. His life was so much less complicated before she had become an integral part. Maybe he _would_ be happier without her.

He won't look at her now. 'You have to go. Tell me you'll go away from me. Go home.'

'Greg… I don't think I can,' she says pleadingly, clutching at his shirt sleeves in desperation.

He takes a breath – turns back to her.

'We can,' he says, touching her cheek, 'we have to.'

'No,' she says faintly, shaking her head, sobbing, 'tell me honestly, is this what you want… is it the best thing for you?'

He cannot believe it – this woman makes him _cry_. They both cry, like children who can't have what they want when it is in their line of sight – within their reach.

'It's the best thing for both of us,' he says.

'No, not _both_ of us! Not me. _I know_ what's best for me. Is this the best thing for _you_?

He gives a noncommittal nod. A gesture of a lie.

He exits hastily through the door, allowing Blue to enter.

The dog jumps onto the bed – leaps and bounds – licking Lee's face reassuringly. In his blissful canine ignorance, he is unaware of the gravity of the situation. He is unaware that his human companion has just died an exclusively human type of death.


	32. XXXII Artefacts

Re: Cyn, _"Re: Chapter 31 - I'm sorry. House just isn't THAT stupid to walk away. You're losing me."_

Are you sure? He sent Stacy away! I agree with "anon." I'm operating on the assumption that House has some pretty entrenched "core beliefs" (Beck), that he is unlovable, hurts those he cares about, and doesn't deserve Lee. Throughout the series they paint House as the kind of guy who has difficulties with emotional attachments. I've based this whole fic on the premise that House is a _very_ difficult guy to get next to. Having said that, _of course_ there is a reunion on the horizon (I don't think I'm giving too much away there – these two _just have to_ get back together) and I am aware that his behavior could be getting a bit tedious… but I hope I haven't lost you completely, because I _really_ appreciate all of the readers/reviews bothering to stick with this fic – I know OC fics are generally not very popular…

* * *

XXXII – Artefacts

The flowers you gave me are rotting and still I refuse to throw them away  
Some of the bulbs never opened quite fully  
They might so I'm waiting and staying awake  
Things I have loved I'm allowed to keep  
I'll never know if I go to sleep

-

Flowers - Regina Spektor

Everything is done. Organized. Arranged. Finalized.

Lease expired, car sold, furniture sold or donated, clothes and essential items packed.

There are many suitcases and boxes.

What an effort it is to move. Moving apartments is one thing, moving countries – a different matter entirely.

Friends have cried and hugged and kissed and said things like 'you must call – any time of the day.'

She has visited each of her favourite places one last time. The gallery, the park, the coffee shop that marked the official beginning.

She remembers the moment when she knew she had him. Their mild flirtations had been obvious: at the hospital and on his visit to the gallery, but she was sure he would keep his distance.

On that crisp spring day when she found him in the coffee shop however, she had seen it in his eyes, in his expression. She knew at that moment, that it was going to happen.

She smiles to herself – thinks about what she had said. _'I'm just looking for someone to entertain me.'_

Now she laughs. What a ridiculously crass statement. She was feeling bold. He had done that to her, he motivated her, inspired the confidence she needed to win him.

She has to resort to a tired old cliché to explain what has happened to her over the past eleven months. The love of a lifetime. No, more than that. So much more. The _experience_ of a lifetime. What a thrill, what an eye-opener, what a revelation.

Forcing herself to be mundane and realistic though, she knows there will be other men. There will be other wonderful men. There will be handsome men, gentlemen, intelligent men, funny men, dangerous men, quirky men, kind men, sexy men…

But there will never be a man who is all of these things. There will never be another man like House.

No-one as unique, no one as complex and blissfully challenging.

No-one as beautiful and intricate in nature.

He, the capricious, colourful creature. Piquant, provocative, pornographic. Gloriously sharp – eyes glinting like a lethal blade, a wicked smile.

This is how she will remember him.

He has left his mark. On her skin – under her skin. She has been branded. Claimed.

She will never consider love in the same way.

**………**

She has one last place to visit – she will make one last effort.

The first person she sees at the hospital is Wilson.

'How are you?' he asks.

He always seems to be asking this question.

She gives him a: _this is the opposite to how I'm actually feeling_, smile.

'I've stopped crying,' she says, 'I'm not sure what that means. I think I'm all cried out.'

He hugs her, and he says all of the appropriate things.

She wants to say something like 'look out for him will you,' but she thinks it would sound stupid, and she knows he will do this anyway.

'What time is your flight?' he asks.

'I'm going straight there, after here,' she says, 'seven pm.'

They exchange goodbyes and she says, 'I will come back to visit, you know.'

And she does intend to. She thinks House needs some time and space and then maybe things will be different. She intends to visit, in six months? Twelve months? But she won't tell him this – not explicitly anyway.

**………**

She finds him on the roof.

'How did you know I was here?' he asks, harried, because he is shocked to see her and these are the first words to spill from his mouth.

She smiles.

_Because I know you inside and out._

'You always come up here when you need to think.'

She moves to stand beside him.

He nods as he stares out over rooftops and watches the sun sink.

He is relieved to see her and yet he doesn't want her to be here – he wanted a clean break. He doesn't know what to say, he doesn't know how to handle this situation.

She will handle it for him.

She slips her arm under his jacket and rests her face on the centre of his chest. She is mildly surprised when his arms encircle her, pulling her close against his body – sharing his warmth.

'I don't expect you to say anything…' she says, 'I don't want you to say anything, ok.'

She feels him nod as his chin rests on her head.

He strokes her hair.

'I love you,' she says firstly, and her tears start to soak his shirt.

'Ridiculously so…' she adds.

She pauses as she thinks of what else she needs to say.

'You're stubborn Greg,' she says, 'but I'm just as stubborn. This is _not_ over.'

The hold each other, silently, until the sun disappears completely.

The door to the roof opens abruptly. It is Cameron.

'House…' she says, before breaking off – curious.

Lee pulls back from him and turns away quickly.

Cameron squints in the darkness, trying to make out the identity of the woman whom House was holding so tenderly.

'Damn it Cameron! What?' he spits angrily.

'Uh, emergency… Heather is having another seizure.'

He looks back at Lee. This is not the ideal parting moment. He had wanted to say something, but he isn't even sure what that is.

'Now House,' Cameron says, 'you've got to come now!'

He follows Cameron – looking back only once.

**………**

She does it.

She actually gets on the plane and leaves.

He knows this because he walks past her apartment and sees the new tenants moving in.

It is definite.

She is gone.

And he finds himself slightly surprised. Why? He doesn't know. Maybe he had expected her to stay at the last minute. Maybe he had expected to have the time, and the balls, to stop her.

What would he have said? _Stay. I don't want you to go. I want you in my life – for the rest of my life._

No, he's just a fucking coward – he's afraid of a girl.

Almost three months and he is still finding her things around his place. Stupid things like hair-bands and hairclips behind the cushions on the couch. A tube of lipstick in his bathroom – red of course. A pair of tiny flip-flops in the hall closet. How did they get there? All artefacts of a female presence.

There is a box of cereal that she had bought, in the kitchen.

He doesn't eat it because if he does, he might finish it and then he would have to throw the box out.

He doesn't want to throw the box out.

_If she were here, what would we be doing right now?_ he thinks, as he often does. Probably watching TV. Boring? No. They would turn the volume to mute and simulate voices for the characters – invent their own dialogue. She would be laughing so hard she couldn't breathe. Then she would kiss him, because she always did when he made her laugh like that, and they'd make out and end up having sex right there on the couch.

**………**

It has been bad. Really bad.

He forgets things at work. He has been making mistakes. This gets to him. He cannot tolerate mistakes. And mistakes at work are the _worst_ kind.

No one knows why. They assume his leg pain must be worse. Which it is of course.

Only Wilson knows.

Only Wilson knows that he is broken, and he worries that his friend may never recover. He wonders what will be on the other side of this. A _more_ embittered, _more_ jaded man?

He spends entire weekends in bed. Not sleeping, just lying and thinking.

Thinking, damn it. The thoughts – deafeningly loud and intrusive. Debilitating. Won't they just stop? Will they ever become softer? Will they ever leave him alone?

He hasn't been popping pills. Not after his close encounter. Anyway, they don't seem to work anymore. Only Vicodin.

One day, he forgets to go to work. Forgets entirely.

Cuddy is on his doorstep.

She eyes his track-suit pants and full beard. He smells like stale smoke. He smells stale, in general.

He is stale.

'I don't know what's happened to you House,' she says, pointing her finger, 'but this is the _worst_ I have ever seen you. Even right after the surgery…after Stacy.'

She says this last part hesitantly.

'Take two weeks off,' she instructs.

'That's…' he starts.

'I mean it,' she says sternly, 'don't come back to work until you've sorted yourself out!'

She pulls the door shut, slamming it as she leaves, and he thinks for a moment, that maybe he should have been the one doing the slamming.

_Sort yourself out. Yeah, right,_ he thinks, _how?_

* * *

Stay tuned. As Lee said: _this is not over yet_. 


	33. XXXIII Quiet

For the sake of a smoother transition, here is the new chapter 33.

XXXIII – Quiet

All my friends say that of course its gonna get better  
Gonna get better  
Better better better better  
Better better better

-

Fidelity - Regina Spektor

He is the perfect gentleman. He is handsome, a good age – thirty, and has a great job, something in business. He says all the right things. Things like, 'what do you think? I want to hear your opinion.'

But, she just wants him to _shut the fuck up._ And when she realises why, she reprimands herself and channels all of her cognitive energy to concentrate on him. Why is his voice so grating? Because it is rudely interrupting her thoughts of House. What is she thinking? Same as usual. _I wonder what he is doing right now. I hope Wilson is with him._ She tilts her crystal glass, emptying the remainder of her white wine into her mouth and forces a smile at Mark Keller. Mr charming, handsome, rich, polite, boring as bat shit Keller.

_Maybe I should just go back to his place and fuck him,_ she thinks. _That will shut him up, and maybe it would force me out of this rut._

She knows this is not an option. The very thought of this man touching her sends a shiver through her body. The notion is utterly repulsive. And this is absurd. He is very attractive. The blonde seated two tables behind obviously thinks so, she has been drooling ever since they were seated. She feels like shouting: 'you can have him honey, I am _not_ interested.' Of course she would have been very interested about a year ago. Before House.

Her life has been divided into two sections now. Before House and after House. Something like BC and AD…

This 'date,' had been another one of her cousin Miranda's _brilliant_ ideas. Lee had been staying with Miranda, and while she had tried to put on a brave face, Miranda had honed her prying and snooping skills and collected some rather convincing evidence that her darling cousin was heat broken.

Fact number one: her diet consisted almost entirely of chocolate _Timtams, _mac and cheese and TV dinners.

Fact number two: she spent way too much time watching _Oprah_ and _The Bold and the Beautiful,_ on her days off.

Fact number three: she had purchased numerous pairs of flannelette pyjamas with ridiculously childish prints of rubber duckies and bunny rabbits, and had been wearing them as if they were a second skin. She would lounge in them for the entire day on a Saturday, shower at night and change into a fresh pair, only ever wearing normal adult clothing when she had planned to leave the house – which she did very rarely, and usually only to go to work – which appeared to be much more of a chore than it used to be.

Fact number four: she had found an interesting photograph in the draw of the dresser in the spare bedroom Lee had been occupying. Miranda and Lee had spent a great deal of time together as children. They had attended the same school and shared a sisterly relationship rather than the more distant family bond that may be expected of cousins. Throughout their time together, Miranda had learned many things about Lee. For example, she knows that wherever she is staying, Lee will always find a dresser or a bureau or a desk, and nominate a draw to hide her sentimental possessions. She also knows that this odd looking fellow in the photograph, which has a date and the name _Greg_ scrawled on the back side, is just exactly Lee's type of guy. He looks broody, and sullen and complicated. He looks like a handful. She remembers the time Lee had her heart broken by an impoverished artist who had taken her as his muse. She assumes this _Greg_, must be some sort of painter, of photographer – an artistic wanker as well. But it had never been this bad. She had gotten over Mr pompous portrait painter in a matter of days. She was generally one to let go and move on rather easily. And anyway, this bloke looked _way too_ old for Lee, and Miranda could sense he had more baggage than JFK airport.

'Time to get over Greg,' Miranda had said, snatching the television remote from Lee and throwing clothing at her as she sat on the couch, eyes wide with surprise.

'Come on,' she added, 'you're behaving like one of your patients.'

Miranda's initial plan was to take Lee to a club owned by her latest boyfriend and get her shit-face drunk. The scenario was mildly reminiscent of the time they had used fake IDs to get into a club when they were only sixteen, and it ended in much the same way – Miranda holding Lee's hair back as she vomited in the toilet. This time, Lee had spilled her guts, both literally and metaphorically. Miranda had finally learned all about this _Greg_ looser. Of course, that was her own spin – Lee only had kind words to say about this guy – describing him as if he was some kind of saint.

So, her first plan had backfired. Her secondary plan was a certificate to a day spa. Steam room, massage, facial, manicure, pedicure, waxing. Miranda had insisted that Lee do something to change her appearance. She had protested – saying that she was perfectly content with the way she looked, but Miranda had convinced her to have her hair layered and highlighted, saying that it was a foolproof way to get over a guy. Of course, it had no such effect and Miranda opted for some pain therapy – forcing Lee to have the upper fold of her ear pierced. _God damn,_ it hurt! But she had had to develop a high threshold for pain of late, and so this was not effective either.

Almost four months, and she was still pining, so Miranda tried the line: 'There is this really cute guy at work, you would love him. I'd go for him myself, but he already knows I'm seeing Scotty.'

'No,' Lee had said, shaking her head determinedly.

'Too bad,' Miranda had replied, 'I've already set it up. You're meeting him at _Dulcets_ on Saturday night.'

**………**

So now, she stands on the street with Miranda's 'really cute guy from work,' Mark, and she cringes as she endures the most uncomfortable stage of the date.

'So,' he says, 'I had a great time.'

'Yeah,' she says, forcing a smile changing her clutch perse from hand to hand, 'thanks.'

And then he tries to kiss her and she turns her face away from him, so that they brush cheeks. She pulls back – her eyes meeting with his. He has beautiful big brown eyes. But they are _not_ beautiful big _blue_ eyes and so she doesn't care for them. She leans in again and places a quick peck on his cheek. She had to give the poor guy something – she appreciated him in some way after all.

**………**

Cuddy had been impressed when, after her visit, he had phoned her and had asked for a month of long service leave, rather than two weeks off work. She had contemplated the notion that he might be seeking some sort of intensive treatment. Detox and rehab? Might he consult an occupational therapist, a physiotherapist, a psychiatrist? But she hadn't wanted to give herself false hope.

He _was_ seeking some sort of therapy – but nothing that a doctor or professor with any sort of qualifications could offer him. He knows that the best person to consult is himself. He remembers what Lee had said to him the time had had showed up on her doorstep with Chinese take-out.

'_I don't want to fix you, Greg. I can't, whether it's through a professional, psychologist-patient relationship, or any other sort of relationship. I know it sounds corny but only you can do that, if you need to and if you really want to.'_

He knows he needs to turn the bright light of his critical, inquisitive mind on himself. So often, this light is shining outwards. He is constantly judging, appraising and criticising others. It is time that he was the subject of his own inquisition.

He knew he needed to go somewhere else to do this. Somewhere fresh and exotic – a world away from Princeton. He needed quiet and because he appreciates a good paradox, he sent himself somewhere loud and bold – somewhere where the ambience could deafen him and knock him senseless, somewhere where he was forced to be another person – not a doctor, a cripple, a son, a boss, an impossible employee, an ungrateful best friend or a cherished lover, but some guy who could get lost in the crowd.

Just a tourist.

A soul seeking nomad.

He would be left alone. Completely alone. And that was just the kind of quiet he was seeking.

This is why, now, he stands on the side of the street watching a procession – an Indian wedding celebration.

The heat is imposing – burdening his lungs and causing his shirt to stick to the damp skin of his back.

Vociferous sounds, sights and smells besiege him.

Sharp, pungent aromas, drums pounding inside his head. No matter how creative he tries to be, he simply cannot name every colour he sees.

Vermillion, cerise, indigo, emerald, azure, cerulean, citron.

Of course, the colours – in all their beauty and allure, remind him of her.

He watches as the couple smile and kiss – sharing their joy and love so willingly. A private moment made public. There are massive crowds of people, only a small percentage of which would be family, he assumes, and yet each person behaves as if this marriage is a personal source of happiness for them. And why not? They are simply celebrating the wonder of love. He considers the fact that this may be an arranged marriage, but you wouldn't know it just by viewing this parade, and it doesn't seem to matter anyway because this euphoric atmosphere is contagious and every person that surrounds him is jubilant.

He has spent days – weeks doing something he never thought he would do at that this stage in his life. He had travelled to places just to shock himself and remind himself that there is a whole world out there – and it is electrifying, stimulating, dangerous, astonishing. But it means nothing. Just to experience it – bodily, it means nothing. All that matters is what you _know_.

Before returning home, he knows there is one place else he has to visit - there is something vital he needs to collect. Because, when he achieves ultimate silence, a state approximating mediation, when all is truly quiet in his mind – he _knows_ that only she remains.

**………**

Thanks to Rara8777 for the 'travelling' inspiration.


	34. XXXIV Bouquet

Ok guys, you might be a bit confused. 34 is not the new chapter. 34 is the old 33. I have slipped another chapter in between 32 and the reunion because I decided that it all seemed a bit rushed. Originally, I had wanted to include something like this, but I was worried that it was becoming a bit drawn out – and there were too many chapters. However, rara8777 convinced me that something was amiss (thankyou!), and if you guys are still keen to read, then I'm just gonna keep posting! So skip back a chapter and take a look (only if you want to…)

**………**

XXXIV – Bouquet

No, this is how it works  
You peer inside yourself  
You take the things you like  
And try to love the things you took  
And then you take that love you made  
And stick it into some  
Someone else's heart  
Pumping someone else's blood  
And walking arm in arm

-

On the Radio - Regina Spektor

Four months. It has been four months. Four months and counting. She is keeping a mental tally, crossing each new day off in her mind. Reaching the end of each day is an achievement – _I managed to get through another day_…

At first, she had thought she should take some time away work, but instead, she had decided to throw herself back in at the deep end in an effort to distract herself.

She had found a temporary job – a locum position, at a small community clinic.

Nothing too stimulating. Most clients come through with depression, anxiety, depression, substance abuse, depression, depression, depression.

She feels like saying to them: _'I know how you feel.'_

Today is her birthday and her plans consist of work until five, and a microwave dinner in front of the television. _Fantastic._

She locks the consultation room at the clinic and begins to make her way down the hall, but stops when she hears the receptionist, Emily, calling out to her.

'You have a five thirty appointment,' Emily says, finding her in the hall, 'sorry honey, thought you were goin' home for the night, huh?'

'Do I?' she says, 'I don't remember making a five thirty appointment.'

Although, she wouldn't put it past herself – she hadn't exactly been on top of her game lately.

'Yeah, says he's a new patient. He's in the waiting room,' Emily replies, 'the name is House.'

She pauses. Her heart beats furiously. Surely not. Then who else? A patient with the same name? An unlikely coincidence.

'Are you alright? You look like you've seen a ghost,' Emily says.

'Ah, yeah, I'm ok… what does he look like?' Lee asks, clutching Emily's arms.

'Really tall and…kinda handsome. Distinctive blue eyes. Scruffy, walks with a cane.'

Her breathing pauses. The rush of blood to her brain is dizzying.

'And it's the strangest thing,' Emily adds, 'but he has _flowers_…'

Emily pronounces this statement with a shrug, and then watches curiously as Lee rushes past her.

She has to skip in her heels to get to the waiting room as quickly as possible. She had never realised how long the hallway was until this moment.

He sits with his long body squeezed into one of the uncomfortable waiting-room chairs, head down, knees apart, twirling the end of his cane into the carpet and nursing a ridiculously large bouquet of pink roses in his lap. She gasps, covers her mouth. _He is here._ This is an extreme gesture – his presence in this room now is deeply poignant. She admonishes herself for ever doubting his love for her. He looks up to see her and she is _amazing_ – even more beautiful than he remembers, if it is even possible. He saw her face everyday she was away from him – her image burned behind his eyes. And now she stands before him: diaphanous skin, hair like spun gold, perfectly fine features.

'Happy birthday,' he says simply, holding the roses out to her.

This was a last minute decision, a finishing touch. He happened to pass a florist at the airport. He knows it's slightly corny, but rationalises it by telling himself that girls like this sort of stuff.

She couldn't care less about the roses. _How could he think that he isn't enough?_

She struggles to breathe and the tears that flow are most inconvenient – obscuring her view of his face.

'Well, _come here_,' he says, gesturing with his hand.

She is on the chair beside him in a second. He smiles, and she squeezes his shoulder to be sure he is not an apparition.

They have been reunited.

'Apparently,' he says, 'we can't do it. We can't be apart.'

His American brogue hums throughout the room. She is so grateful to hear this accent, this familiar voice – this voice she loves.

It seems as though _he is not_ too tired and wounded to fight, after all.

She smashes her lips against his, kissing him furiously. The armrests of the chairs are an inconvenient obstacle in her quest to be as close to him as molecularly possible.

_God! The taste of him, the smell of him, the familiar grip of his strong hands._ It is all just the same – as if they hadn't been apart from each other for a single day.

The receptionist has returned to the room unnoticed. She stands, mouth agape, watching… a professional psychologist French kissing a _patient?_

Lee catches sight of Emily from the corner of her eye. Reluctantly, she breaks the kiss.

'Don't worry,' she grins, 'this is my boyfriend.'

House rolls his eyes and makes a _pfft_ sound.

'_Boyfriend_,' he says mockingly, 'I think the more appropriate term is _incredibly well endowed and sexually adventurous American lover_.'

She laughs loudly. The receptionist displays a look of confusion, with hint of mild disgust.

Lee is often the only one in a room to laugh at his jokes. She feels this is her privilege.

She takes his hand and pulls him from the chair.

**………**

'How did you get here?' she asks when they are in the car park.

She is grinning widely – giddy and drunk with love.

'Modern invention – it's called an _ae-ro-plane_. It flew me all the way across the pacific.'

She rolls her eyes.

'I meant how did you get here from the airport? Rental car?'

She holds his hand tightly – refuses to let go.

'Nah, taxi. I think the guy ripped me off too…I still haven't got a handle on your weird colourful plastic money.'

They stop at a Ford sedan.

'No Shaguar?' he says, referring to her penchant for Jaguars.

She shakes her head.

'This is my cousin's car,' she says, 'I haven't really settled in yet.'

_Good_, he thinks, _that will make the transition back the New Jersey nice and easy._

'I'm staying with some relatives,' she continues as she unlocks the car, 'which is why we are going to the nearest hotel or motel right now…'

'You don't want me to meet your relatives?' he asks.

'Well you can if you want, but there's no point really, it'll just be: _this is Greg,_ and then we'll rush into the bedroom, and they will have to put up with the sounds of our passionate, enthusiastic, six hour love making session. Probably not very polite, huh?'

'Motel it is then,' he says, raising his eyebrows, 'how soon can you get us there?'

'Ten minutes?'

He nods, 'good.'

He lifts their joined hands.

'But, you're gonna have to let go… you know, in order to drive… that and, you're kinda cutting off the circulation.'

She smiles, and releases his hand.

'I missed you,' she says.

'I missed you.'

**………**

She pulls into the car park of a roadside motel in exactly ten minutes, as she had promised.

'Perfect,' she says.

The reception room is dark and dingy, with wood panelled walls and a stereotypical fat guy sitting behind the counter. He wears a stained singlet and is shoving a burrito into his mouth, the contents of which are dripping down his front.

House wrinkles his nose and looks at her.

'Are you sure about this place?' he says quietly.

She smiles and nods, walking towards the counter.

'We're going to need a room til tomorrow,' she says.

The fat guy eyes her before offering her a sleazy smile. 'Sign in here sugar.'

House rolls his eyes.

The man pushes the book towards her and turns to retrieve a set of keys.

She signs the book and takes care of the payment. House notices a sign reading: _XXX movies available in every room_. He nudges Lee and directs her attention to the sign.

'We're not going to need that,' she whispers, winking at him.

'Room 101,' says the fat guy, holding a set of keys out for Lee.

She reaches out to take them from him and he pulls back abruptly.

'Come and get 'em,' he says, dangling them by his side, and she thinks this is possibly the most disgusting sight she has ever witnessed.

House leans forward and snatches the keys from the guy, casting him an: _'I'm watching you,'_ glare.

**………**

The opening of the front door reveals a surprisingly clean room. Small double bed, old television set, a glass top table and two dining chairs in the corner. Behind the table is a small kitchenette and a bathroom.

'Not too bad actually,' House says, eyeing the room, throwing his backpack on the bed and sitting beside it.

'Ah, come on, haven't you ever fantasised about having sex in a sleazy motel?' she says, sitting beside him.

'Nope. I've got nothing against clean, un-semen-stained sheets. But, having said that, I would have been willing to lie you down on the floor in that waiting-room, right in front of the receptionist, if necessary.'

They stare at each other for a moment. She is not sure what to do – how to initiate something. This is a sacred moment. A jubilee. She thinks she should start by simply touching him, because she has been denied this luxury for too long, and so she does – she touches his face gently, as if he is a fragile ornament. He seems to shiver at this touch and then he changes the pace altogether. His hand scoops under her jaw and he kisses her quickly – breathlessly, in his usual bold way. She accepts his revision to the itinerary and pulls her knees under herself, breaking away from him for the briefest moment to shrug her jacket off, before pressing her lips against his again – rather inelegantly.

'I can't believe you flew twenty two hours to come and get me… what about your leg?' she says against his mouth as her arms slip around him.

'Can we focus on exchanging bodily fluids now…and talk later?' he says, in between kisses.

'Mmm,' she moans in response.

**………**

She wants to create the most intimate of love making positions – because this is a celebration. When they are satisfied with having touched every inch of each others' naked bodies – as if they were inspecting each other to make certain that they had reclaimed the right property, she urges him to sit in the centre of the bed with his back straight and his knees bent slightly, so that his feet almost touch. She thinks this will lessen the impact on his thigh. He watches, silent, adoring, as she smiles and positions herself above him. Her knees slide over the coversheet of the mattress, and her thighs part over his, as she lowers herself into his lap. She reaches down before her body and guides him into her. Her line of sight is level with his now. She nudges his nose with her own. Her arms drape over his shoulders. His arms fold up, and under hers and his hands rest at her shoulder blades. They pause, holding each other, connected. They savour this moment, being as close as two people ever physically can be. They stare into each others eyes as infants do when they are learning and growing – searching for meaning, when they are unaware of the social significance of eye contact, when the instinct to look away if the situation becomes overwhelming, has not yet developed.

After a moment, their lips meet. Eyes closed, she takes a moment to enjoy the blissful sensations of kissing. The soft wetness of his tongue, the familiar scruff of his chin, their noses nestling. Their technique is practiced, yet hardly mundane – steady, slow, sensual. In the beginning, she remembers being surprised at how good his kisses were. She knew he would be good in bed, his personality gave that away – but kissing is an entirely different matter. In her experience she had learned that a man could be fantastic in bed – and still be a pitiful kisser. After a while she had come to the conclusion that men simply didn't enjoy it as much as women – as if they were too focused on the big event to put any effort and enthusiasm into it. House had changed her mind though. His enjoyment is obvious. She often finds this most arousing – the way he kisses her. Even before the big event – he makes love to her with his kiss.

He is mindful of this. He had always found it easier to express his love physically, rather than with words. Tonight he will do both. He knows he has much to say and he will need to wait to express it precisely.

It is a long time before either one of them considers the element of friction. They have been happy to bask in their warm, moist, simple contact – enjoying a higher form of ecstasy. She sighs, resting her forehead on his. Her head moves back and she opens her eyes again – recognising his wicked expression. His grin prompts her to begin moving. He has almost forgotten he is inside her, and releases a prolonged groan as his body awakens to this sensation.

She builds a steady rhythm, pushing her hips against him, before rising and falling slowly. She arches back - her palms flat on the mattress behind her, as she continues moving. He waits a moment, before curling an arm around her, gently urging her to return to his embrace – needing her as close as possible. Her breasts press against his chest and he guides her head to his, kissing her again. It never ceases to amaze him how kissing during intercourse intensifies the pleasure so significantly. The added stimulation triggers the initial sensations of his orgasm and he has to break the kiss and rest his chin on her shoulder because he doesn't want it over yet. Lee has felt the same effect, and yet she wants more. She takes his head in her hands and her lips press at his – urging him to open his mouth. He complies, and her tongue laps at his, as she grinds her hips harder against him.

She breaks the kiss for a moment to cry out, before returning her lips to his. At this, he decides to welcome the impending climax and moves to match her rhythm – raising his hips slightly – pushing up into her and causing her to break the kiss again. Her mouth moves absently over his stubbled cheek now, as she squeezes his shoulder and focuses her attention on the gradually intensifying sensations of her orgasm. She shudders as the sensations start at her core and reverberate throughout her body. Her spasms draw his orgasm forth and she relishes in the familiar feeling of him spilling into her.

'Did I mention that I missed you?' she says against his chest.

He laughs absently, overwhelmed by the vestiges of his orgasm.

**………**

'I think that's what they call tantric sex,' he says after a moment, as they lay side by side, grinning at the ceiling.

'Mmm, nice wasn't it,' she says, angling her face towards him.

'You look different,' he says.

'How?' she asks.

'Only a little,' he replies, 'your hair has changed – it's shorter, and it's got more blonde in it.'

'Do you like it?' she asks.

'Yeah,' he says, pushing it back off her face, and tucking it behind her ear, 'and this is new…'

He prods at a tiny diamond stud in the fold at the top of her ear.

'You've got more freckles on your nose, too,' he adds.

'You look just the same,' she says approvingly.

He smiles.

'How did you find me?' she asks, drawing circles on his chest.

'Well, I had contemplated the notion that the distress of our separation may have driven you to a life of drugs, meaningless one-night stands and pole dancing,' he says, twisting her hair around his finger.

She sniggers. 'And you were going to stride in a save me – my night in shining armour?'

'Yeah, I was thinking of searching _Hooters_ restaurants,' he jokes.

'Darling, they would never employ me, you have to have hooters if you want to work at _Hooters_,' she says, making fun of her modest breasts.

'Hey, be careful how you talk about the girls,' he says, dropping her hair to fondle her breasts, 'there's a good handful here.'

She giggles.

'I Googled you. Your details were listed on the website for the clinic,' he says seriously, answering her question.

'Really? Thank god for Google,' she says.

Their eyes meet.

'Sorry,' he says suddenly.

_Sorry for that frightful act of stupidity you witnessed. Sorry for the loss of our baby. Sorry for being so ignorant about what is between us…_

He does not elaborate. He doesn't need to. She understands.

She shakes her head. 'Doesn't matter. None of that matters now.'

'Do you ever think about what it would have been like… what _she_ would have been like?' he asks.

She wonders why he thinks of the baby as a girl. She realises that he must have thought about it often.

She closes her eyes for a moment.

'Every day,' she says quietly, smiling away her tears.

'I love you,' he confesses – finally. He thinks he should be afraid to say this but he is not. He knows he owes it to her and to himself.

'I know. And I've been in love with you for so long,' she replies.

'How long?' he asks.

'Maybe not the first time I saw you…the second?'

He smiles.

'And well and truly by the time you stitched my wrist,' she adds.

They hold each other silently, grinning like idiots.

'You were so wrong in assuming that I'd be better off without you,' she says, 'I never realised how boring my life was before you. Then when we split – well I was depressed of course, but _so bored_. Nothing entertains me as well as you do. Every day was so mundane, I kept thinking: I wonder what Greg's doing right now.'

'Ha. I thought the same thing. Well, obviously I wasn't wondering what _I_ was doing…'

'I want you to tell me something,' she says, sitting up, 'I want you to tell me that I can keep you.'

He pulls her arm, causing her to lie back down next to him.

'If you want, but I'm really no prize. Frankly, I think you've been ripped off, I'm broken, damaged goods. You should return me.'

'No. I'm going to tear up the purchase receipt. Burn it.'

'Will you come back to Jersey with me?' he asks.

He knows she will, but he has to hear her say so.

'Well, let me see… hmm, don't rush me now…. my incredibly well endowed American lover…'

'Incredibly well endowed _and_ sexually adventurous,' he corrects her.

'Right, yes, I forgot that part. My incredibly well endowed _and_ sexually adventurous American lover, who might I add, I've been trying desperately to hang onto for the best part of a year, flies half way across the world and braves intense leg pain, bad aeroplane food and bitchy flight attendants, in order to tell me that he loves me, and ask me to come home with him… what on earth is a girl to do when she finds herself in such a predicament?'

He shrugs comically.

'Of course,' she laughs, 'Greg, I'd move to Africa and live in a mud hut, to be with you.'

He kisses her, happy to have a plan set in concrete.

'Are your parents here, in Sydney?' he asks.

'No, they live further up,' she points to the ceiling, 'on the Gold Coast.'

'Do you think they would approve of me?'

She screws her face into an expression of surprise.

'What? Since when do you care whether anyone _approves_ of you?'

'Answer the question.'

'Ah…' She cringes – seems hesitant.

'Truthfully,' he says.

'Truthfully? My mom would be highly suspicious of you. She would probably refer to you as: _that grumpy American Lee is sleeping with_. My dad, well, he's harmless. All you would have to do is mention your bike, and you would instantly be best mates. You'd have a bit of trouble getting him to shut up, though.'

He nods. Sounds simple enough.

'Will we visit them before we go home?' he says.

Her mouth forms an O of astonishment. 'Huh?'

'Surely you want to see them before we go back to the States?'

'I've seen them. They met me at the airport when I first got back. Sounds to me like _you_ want to see them,' she says, probing gently.

'Yeah, ok, sounds like a plan,' he says nonchalantly, pretending it was her idea.

She grins raising her eyebrows. 'You know what I love most about you?'

'Hmm?'

'You never stop surprising me. You don't fit in a single box.'

'Neither do you,' he says.

'Maybe we fit in a box together…' she says.

'We do. It's a boxy little motel room in Sydney, Australia.'

She loves the way he says Awst-ray-lia.

She grins. 'I'll call my parents and tell them that my incredibly well endowed and sexually adventurous American lover wants to meet them.'

'I like your thinking… put in the good word,' he says, before reaching for the television remote and deflecting the meaningfulness of the proposal with his usual comic flair by adding, 'lets check out the porn.'

**………**

I know this is turning out to be a rather long fic – in fact, at this stage I should probably admit that I have envisaged that it will consist of approx 50 chapters in total! (cringes). Needless to say, I have a lot more in store for the adventures of House and Lee… and I am happy to reveal that their future does NOT involve another split (I think House has finally learned his lesson). But there is a definite end point in sight, and I am hoping that it will be appropriate in terms of 'closure.' Along the line – tell me if it starts to become tedious. Having said that, I would like to thank all of the loyal readers who have persisted with this fic, and who consistently give kind and constructive reviews. I know that fics including a new central character (esp an OFC love interest for House) are not very popular on this site, as most people ship CuddyHouse, CuddyCameron etc, and that is why I am most grateful that you guys seem to enjoy the story – because I am quite fond of Lee, and this is my favourite of my own fics – I actually enjoy writing it much more than my other fics. Anyway – thankyou, and stay tuned for more of the adventures of House and Lee (only if you want to…)

E


	35. XXXV Buzz

I'm glad you guys seemed to appreciate the addition of the new chapter 33! Thanks for your feedback/reviews!

………

XXXV – Buzz

My man he breaks my heart  
He tears me all apart  
And he leaves me such a mess  
They say I'm cursed, but I am blessed

-

My Man - Regina Spektor

He sleeps, she does not.

He is dead to the world – sprawled on his back, snoring gorgeously. Surprising, considering the jetlag, the pain in his leg, his shoulder and neck muscles and the ancient, lumpy, limp motel mattress with its worn padding and jagged springs. Adding to the potential discomfort, the bed is too short and so his feet protrude at the end.

Maybe he sleeps so well because of the accumulated fatigue from the past five months of barely any rest. Maybe he sleeps so well because of the small person nestled in beside him. The small person who sleeps for ten minute intervals before jolting awake and feeling beside her for his body, or pursing her lips to make sure her face is still pressed against his naked skin.

………

Upon waking he knows he mustn't be in New Jersey, because it is far too hot. He has broken into a sweat despite laying perfectly still. He knows he mustn't be in India, because the smell is not right. He realises where he is when his eyes open and focus on the peeling plaster of the motel room ceiling.

He finds her in the dingy bathroom with its retro green tiles.

He stands behind her. She watches their reflection – together in the tarnished mirror and she closes her eyes contently as his arm snakes around her waist and he nibbles at her neck before peering up and into the mirror also. She smiles at him.

'I went to India,' he announces.

She grins inquisitively. 'What?' she says.

'Before I came here, I went to India.'

'Oh. Why?'

His hands are roaming her body. She is wearing his white cotton t-shirt and _absolutely_ nothing else – a fact which is rousing him considerably. He lifts the hem of this conveniently flimsy apparel enough to caress the area of naked skin where thigh merges with buttock.

'It's a good place to think.'

'It is?' she asks.

'Yep.' He pulls her firmly against his body, grinding his pelvis against her slightly, growing hard.

'India?'

'Yeah.'

'As apposed to New Jersey… New York, oh… say, England, France, China…?'

He nods. 'It's the best,' he insists.

'So, you got on a plane and flew all the way to India, just to think?'

'Yeah. It was genius.'

With his free hand – the one that isn't lodged on her hip, holding her tightly, he cradles her chin and watches in the mirror, over her shoulder.

'What did you think about?' she asks his reflection.

'You, mostly.'

'And…'

'And me. Us.'

He traces her full lips with his thumb, before slipping it into her mouth – for the sole purpose of behaving erotically and fueling his arousal. It is an overtly sexual gesture. The visual image, the tactile sensation, the graphic connotation. She pushes her tongue against the pad of his thumb and he moans softly as the sensation effects him – intensifying the throb of his cock. This is what she does to him. She awakens a sort of carnal urge. She has him clawing at her, panting like some deranged animal. He wants nothing more than to slip into her now. It would be perfect, he is already in position, he need only cast aside two insubstantial scraps of fabric and he would be inside her, and this notion is particularly appealing because he could watch in the mirror. But he can tell she is not in the mood. He can tell this because his breath is hot on her neck, and his greedy hands are exploring, and this alone would usually have her tugging at his boxer shorts, aside from the fact that his erection is, not unobtrusively, pressing against her. She is tired. She is never in the mood when she has missed sleep. Instead of attempting to change her mood – which he could do quite easily, he decides to respect this because he knows the prolonged anticipation of their next fuck will only compound the eventual gratification.

'I think you'd like it,' he says finally, 'it's invigorating. If you were a country, I think you'd be India.'

'Maybe we'll go there together one day,' she says, reaching behind to stroke his cheek before wiggling out of his embrace and moving to the doorway.

His hands stay on her body until she moves far enough away so that his arms fall by his sides.

'I have to call Miranda,' she says, 'to tell her we're dropping in.'

………

House narrows his eyes, scrutinising the low-set brick dwelling that has been home to Lee for the past four months. As they push through the rusty, knee-high gate and approach the front porch, he wishes to abscond back to the comfort of the air-conditioned car.

The heat is omnipresent. The air is dense and humid.

He makes note of the buzzing sound.

_Buzzzz._

Insects. Large, small, a multitude of iridescent colours.

In this country, the sound is constant, almost hypnotic, like white noise.

'Hey,' Lee says, as the door opens.

'Hey,' Miranda replies, a wide smile curling her lips.

'We're here to pack,' Lee says, and Miranda's smile disappears as she turns her head to cast her eyes upon House.

'Well, if it isn't _Saint_ Gregory!' she says scathingly in her blunt Australian accent.

House raises a brow.

'Greg will do,' he says.

They hear a click as Miranda unlocks and opens the mosquito-mesh covered screen door. She steps aside and eyes House suspiciously as the couple enter the room. She pays particular attention to his walking cane – something she hadn't expected, but something that seems entirely consistent with his apparent excentric character none the less.

The three individuals stand behind the sofa in the living room, regarding one another wordlessly. Lee sighs heavily and then says: 'It's hot out, isn't it?' attempting to break the ice.

'Mmm,' Miranda nods, her eyes focused intently on House.

'Well,' Lee says, taking several cautious steps backwards, 'I'm just gonna get a few things from my room. You two play nice, ok.'

She cringes as she turns on her heel and disappears down the hall.

He is silently cursing Lee for leaving him alone with this tetchy woman. Miranda is tall – just as tall as him, and although she is only slender, she seems as though she could put up a good fight if the occasion called for it.

He is preparing to slink away down the hall to join Lee when Miranda's sharp voice pierces the silence once again.

'How old are you?' she asks tactlessly.

He turns back to her.

A roguish smile pulls at the corners of his mouth.

'Fifty-five,' he announces.

Her eyes and mouth widen simultaneously, and it takes a short moment before she realises that he doesn't look a day over forty and so she closes her mouth and narrows her eyes sceptically.

'Forty-two,' he clarifies, 'do you need to see a birth certificate, inspector? I think I my passport is in my bag.'

'Lee is twenty-eight,' she says matter-of-factly.

She is attempting to make some sort of point, he assumes.

He nods, _'yeah,'_ he says, 'and only just.'

She is baiting him, and he is biting. Hard.

'What's with the cane?' she asks, again without reserve.

'Oh you know, it's just an accessory. I went though a 'pimp' phase. I was going to get myself a diamond grill but this has much greater utility.'

She scoffs. 'Right, so he's a smart ass.'

He opens his mouth to speak, but closes his lips tightly and clenches his jaw instead – containing whatever biting remark that was attempting to escape. He is out of his element. He has Lee to think about. For one of the first times in his adult life, he has an impression to make, and it really matters. He steps down.

'You know,' Miranda says, 'Lee told me all about you.'

'It took me months to get it out of her,' she continues, 'she only told me when she was completely wasted, and had her head over a toilet bowl.'

House listens intently.

'You know what she told me?'

He is silent.

'She said that she thought that she had been in love before, but when she met you, she realised she hadn't. She said every other time was just a rehearsal for the real thing.'

He looks down at the parquet floor now.

'I tell you what,' Miranda says, moving closer to House and pointing her finger, 'if she ends up on my doorstep again, if ever again, you reduce her to the _nothing_ she was just last month, I will get on a plane, fly to Princely or wherever the fuck it is, and I will find you, and I will _cut your balls off!_'

He feels the urge to say: _believe me, if I ever hurt her again, I'll cut my own balls off,_ but he settles for a simple, 'got it,' accompanied by a nod of his head.

Lee emerges at the end of the hall, with several suitcases, and clothing draped over her arm.

'How's it goin?' she asks hesitantly.

'Great,' Miranda says, slipping her arm around House's shoulder, 'Greg and I are just getting to know one another.'

House forces a smile and Lee narrows her eyes doubtfully.

………

Their new hotel room is a breath of fresh air – quite literally. Wide open spaces, floor to ceiling glass windows, beach motifs, blue and white décor. A crisp, gentle breeze worries the soft curtains framing a view of the crystal ocean. The novelty of their _'we are adoring lovers who don't need clean sheets or working shower taps because we have each other,_' campaign had worn off, and they had given in to their comfort loving instincts and travelled to the Gold Coast earlier than first planned. Conveniently, Lee had managed to escape the commitment of her job because the agency had said they that had hired too many consultants as it was.

She had insisted that Blue should accompany them. 'I adopted him and there is no way I'll abandon him now,' she had said, and although he isn't particularly fond of the dog, he appreciated this sentiment, and agreed. Their travel companion had caused them some unforseen difficulties. No respectable hotel would accommodate their furry comrade and so he had been temporarily committed to the kennels.

The only sensation he can imagine to compare with his current state of relaxation, is the feeling of being senselessly inebriated by a few too many Vicodin, or possibly Marijuana. The notion that he is thousands of miles away from the hospital – from patients, from the clinic, from his slow-witted subordinates, is soothing. The pace here is slower. No one seems to give a damn. They just get on with it, and they like to go barefoot, which is something he appreciates greatly, smiling to himself and wiggling his free toes as his legs lay stretched out before him on the lounger.

He is reclining on the balcony when he is rudely interrupted by the shrill ring of her cell phone.

He calls out to her once, but hears the shower running and so he sighs and heaves his body off the chair.

'Hello,' he says gruffly.

'Oh, hello,' a male voice says, 'I was hoping to speak to Lee.'

'Were you now?' House says, his mind working to discover this man's identity.

Australian. Young. Not her dad. Her brother?

'Who are you?' House demands.

'Ah, my name is Mark, we went out once, I was calling to…'

'Ask her out again?'

'Well, yeah…'

'Sorry, not going to happen, _Mark_.'

'Wha…who are you?' Mark asks.

'I'm her boyfriend,' House replies before lowering the phone, pressing the tiny red button, and tossing it onto the nearby sofa.

He thinks for a moment. _Mark_. What is it with Marks?

Lee emerges from the bathroom with wet tousled hair, wearing a singlet and microscopic shorts. He stares for a moment before speaking.

'You're not wearing a bra,' he says.

She looks down at her chest. 'No,' she says nonchalantly.

He shakes his head and regroups his thoughts.

'Who's Mark?' he asks.

Her expression is completely blank.

'You got me,' she says after a moment, shrugging.

'Well, he just called for you.'

She is not even slightly surprised that he had answered her phone.

'Oh,' she says, finally remembering Miranda's _really cute guy from work_, 'he's nobody. Really, nobody… in fact, I couldn't think of a better word to describe him.'

'Well he seemed to think he was somebody. Somebody who you might want to go out with.'

She scoffs, slipping her arms around him, cuddling him.

'He isn't somebody. _You_ are somebody.'

'Did you go out with him?' he asks, testing her, already knowing the answer.

'Once,' she says, 'because Miranda practically held a gun to my head. Don't worry, I didn't sleep with him. I barely even looked at him the entire night. In fact, I think I was a little rude.'

'Good,' he says, looking down at her, distracted by the way her breasts are pressing against him, covered by nothing more than the thin material of her transparent white singlet.

'Uh,' he mutters as his eyes trace her perfect pink nipples.

He raises his hand to touch her breast but she pulls back from him, barely realising.

'I'm going out for a minute… we're out of milk,' she says, 'you'd better get changed, we're meeting my parents in an hour.'

She moves away from him.

'Yeah? Well you'd better get changed too!' he shouts after her, 'if you're going out in public, how about putting on a bra for starters!'

'You're not concerned about decency. It's just that you don't want anybody else ogling my breasts,' she calls from the bedroom.

'Damn straight!'

'I'm changing my top!' she giggles.

………

When she returns, he emerges from the bedroom, fully clothed.

She inspects his face, narrows her eyes. Something is different.

'You shaved?' she says, eying his bare cheeks and jaw.

'Yeah.'

She touches it and cringes. 'I don't like it,' she says apologetically.

He laughs, 'good, cos I wasn't sure how long I was willing to keep it up.'

'You did that for me – for my parents?' she asks.

He nods.

'I like it how it normally is,' she says.

Her eyes drift lower. He is wearing an ironed shirt, tucked into his belt. She smiles, raising an eyebrow before sliding her hands down and untucking his shirt.

'Don't like that either?' he asks.

'No, it's a bit odd,' she says.

'Good,' he says, 'cos I was sure _that_ wasn't going to last past today.'

'Don't go all weird on me,' she says, 'things are going to be exactly how they were, only more permanent.'

He smiles.

'It's too hot for this,' she says.

She unbuttons his shirt and pushes it off his shoulders, leaving him standing in a t-shirt and jeans. She screws the shirt into a ball and throws it into the corner of the room.

'I want you to leave it there, and retrieve it in the morning,' she says, 'wear it tomorrow and _don't_ iron it.'

She lifts a shopping bag.

'I bought something for you,' she says.

He takes it from her and peers inside at its contents. He lifts the item out of the bag.

Swimming shorts. This is unsettling.

'We're going to the beach,' she announces.

'What?' he exclaims.

'We have to go to the beach Greg… we're on the _Gold Coast!_'

'But we can't…I can't…'

'Of course you can.'

'I can't… _swim!_'

'Oh, we're not going to do laps… we'll just sit in the shallow water like beached whales. Trust me, you'll love it.'

He thinks of the soft, unstable nature of sand.

'I can't use my cane on the beach!'

'You don't need it, you've got me to lean on.'

He eyes the shorts. They are long – knee length, blue, the correct size. Not _too_ bad, he supposes.

'Come on,' she says, 'we're meeting my parent's for lunch at their house, followed by an afternoon dip.'


	36. XXXVI Charm

XXXVI – Charm

I'm in love with your daughter  
I want to have her baby I'm in love with your daughter  
So can I please

-

Somedays - Regina Spektor

He is nervous.

He thinks it is _crazy_ ridiculous, but he is actually _awfully_ nervous.

He attempts to focus on the music filling the small cabin of the rental car. One of her CDs. She had said it was a band from her hometown. _Powderfinger._ He likes it. Mellow, raw, edgy rock.

_The lead guitarist is talented,_ he thinks.

_The male vocalist has a smooth, agreeable voice,_ he thinks.

_Her parents are going to freak when they meet me,_ he thinks.

As they approach the house with its grand verandas and corrugated tin roof, their shoes crunch over the yellow grass.

The entire country is in drought.

He had observed the signs at all of the water outlets in their hotel room. _Watch every drop._

She had called out to him on numerous occasions, telling him to _hurry up and get out of the shower._

Once, he had snatched her arms and pulled her into the shower with him while she was still fully clothed, saying: 'don't you think it would be more economical if we showered together.' In fact, it was far less economical because they had engaged in a full round of foreplay and penetration before finally shutting the water off.

They make their way down a path, through a mess of overhanging foliage.

_Well this little jungle certainly isn't thirsty,_ he thinks as a palm frond taps on his shoulder. He shrugs it away, as if dismissing its effort to gain his attention.

'I want you to remember something,' she says with her hand on the doorknob.

'What's that?' he asks.

'This was _your_ idea.'

His eyes are wide with fright.

She laughs a little, before retracting her comment.

'Don't worry darling,' she says, rubbing his arm reassuringly, 'they are actually completely harmless.'

'Oh,' he says, 'would you say that Miranda was harmless?'

'Oh god no! I love her to bits, but she's a bitch. I should have warned you about that one.'

And then she turns the knob and the door is open.

No turning back.

They navigate their way through a long hall, past a study and a bedroom and into an open plan kitchen and dining area. The ceiling is high and there are numerous fans – blades beating steadily, creating an artificial breeze.

There is a woman standing behind the bench in the kitchen with her hands in a bowl. Dark hair, olive skin, sharp nose. Besides her short stature, she doesn't resemble Lee in the slightest bit.

'Leora,' she says happily, upon noticing the two figures in the room.

She raises her tomato-juice covered hands from the bowl.

'Leora?' House whispers questioningly.

She cringes and rolls her eyes. 'Yeah that's my name. It's ancient Greek, means _illumination_, or _light_, or something.'

He thinks this is profound. _I have seen the light… you are the light of my life_… and other clichés.

'Did I forget to mention that my parents are weird?' she says, interrupting his train of thought.

'I thought you said your parents were ordinary?'

'Well…not _ordinary_ ordinary. I guess I just meant that neither of them are serial killers or psychopaths. Working as a clinical psychologist kinda skews your definition of ordinary.'

'I'm making bruschetta,' the woman says, moving out from behind the bench and kissing Lee sloppily on both cheeks.

'Good mum,' Lee replies unenthusiastically.

'Have you seen your father yet? I think he's out back cleaning the pool.'

The woman seems to behave as if House does not exist.

'No ma,' Lee says.

'Well you'd better go and find him, he wants to show you the new shed.'

'Ma, I don't care about the shed,' Lee says.

She reaches behind without a glance and grips House by the hand, urging him to step forward.

'This is Greg,' she says proudly, presenting him with a wide smile.

'Oh, sorry!' Lee's mother exclaims, 'hello Greg!'

She reaches up and tugs at House's shirt, leaving a tomato stain. He is forced to lower his head and she is able to bestow the same sloppy greeting kisses upon him. He eyes Lee incredulously – surprised to receive such a welcome.

'I'm Effie,' the woman introduces herself.

'Hi…Effie,' he replies, forcing his best _'nice to meet you,'_ smile.

House notices the woman's green eyes. Lee's green eyes. Her lips – Lee's full lips. Now he sees the resemblance.

'You two go outside and sit down,' she says, 'I'll get you a drink. I'll call your father up.'

'Good,' Lee mutters as she guides House out onto the veranda, 'she's fussing. She's always happiest when she's fussing.'

'She doesn't look a thing like you,' he says, sitting beside her on the solid wooden bench.

'She's half Greek,' Lee replies.

He raises his brow. He would never have guessed. Lee appears to be the poster girl for the Irish or Scottish Caucasian race.

'My dad's from an Irish background,' she explains.

He nods, and the man in question appears at the top of the stairs on the end of the veranda.

'Hello,' he says.

He is wearing a Hawaiian print shirt, shorts and flip-flops, and House begins to think that he himself, may not appear to be so odd after all.

Lee and House stand.

'Greg, right?' Lee's father says, shaking House's hand excitedly.

'Yeah,' House says hesitantly, vaguely surprised that this man does not seem to mind that his daughter has presented him with an aging cripple.

'Michael,' her father says, 'how's it going' mate?'

'Yeah, good…Michael,' House says, nodding, making a note to himself that apparently Australian's really do speak like Crocodile Dundee.

'American or Canadian?' Michael asks.

'American,' House responds.

'I did tell him,' Effie says, stepping out onto the veranda with a tray of drinks, 'but he never remembers the little details.'

'Where do you think I've been for the last year, dad?' Lee jokes, reaching for a drink.

'Oh, I don't know, you're always jetting off somewhere.'

'Not anymore,' she says looking at House, 'we're going back to the states tomorrow. That's home now.'

**………**

An hour, and plates full of barbequed meat, salad and coleslaw later, House's mind is still working diligently, constantly reviewing the rules of polite, casual conversation. He had been most surprised not to receive any: _'what do you do? where do you work? what's with the cane? what are your intentions with our daughter? how long have you two been together? how did you meet?'_ type questions. Instead her parents are telling various, boring retiree stories about their holiday in Perth, their new shed and their new granddaughter, and he is most content with this. He nods and smiles and allows his mind to drift. Mid-way though Mrs Emerson's tale about the wine tasting tour, his eyes become fixed on Lee. She is nodding and squinting her eyes ever so slightly in that _'I'm so interested in what your saying,'_ way. The cool breeze is gently raising loose wisps of golden hair to float whimsically around her face. He finds himself licking his lips as he studies her full, cherry lip balm adorned pout. His eyes drift lower. She wears a delicate silver chain around her neck with a collection of tiny charms resting in her cleavage. There is a heart, an anchor, and a cross on one of the charms. He had lifted it earlier to inspect it after she had asked him to close the clasp on the chain, and she had told him that it represents faith, hope and charity. There is also an intricate key charm and a treble clef.

She must have felt his eyes on her because she glances at him, offering him a wink and a smile and he finds himself grinning like a shy schoolboy, before looking at her mother, pretending to be engrossed in her anecdote about the tour bus driver.

His eyes return to her after a brief moment.

He notices a bead of sweat gliding over the glorious pale skin of her left breast and disappearing behind the material of her sundress. That _damn_ sundress – a yellow and white floral pattern with little buttons on the straps. So innocent yet so naughty. Now his mind is flooded with the kinds of thoughts that prompt a blissful throb in his lap. Usually it wouldn't be a problem, he would simply direct her attention to it and she would give him a _helping hand_. But it is neither the time nor the place, so he strains to concentrate on Effie's story.

**………**

After the plates are cleared, like a typical gushing mother, Effie produces the family photos and directs House to images of Lee at six minutes, then six days, then six months and then six years old. At six, she had no front teeth, ginger pigtails and her face was spotted with hundreds of freckles.

'Ha!' he says, 'you look like Pippy Long-Stockings!'

'Actually, I did get that a bit when I was a kid,' she responds.

At sixteen, she looked much the same as she does now.

At nineteen, she is posed in a fashion shoot.

He nudges her teasingly and she covers her face and laughs with embarrassment.

'It was a good way to pay off my undergrad fees,' she says, blushing.

Despite the outdated 90's fashion, he thinks the photo is stunning.

His favourite photo however, is a photo of her on the beach. It was taken not too long ago. She is twenty-five or maybe twenty-six. The sun is low in the sky – the lighting is dim. She is wearing a sloppy purple sweater and has her arm draped around a white Labrador dog. She is smiling her most genuine smile. She is smiling with her mouth and with her eyes. Her teeth are fully exposed. She wears no make-up, and he likes this best. Freckles and fresh-faced beauty.

He waits until he is alone on the veranda – Lee is helping her mother in the kitchen, and her father is nowhere in sight, and he peels the plastic cover back off the page, lifts the photo free, folds it once, slips it into the pocket of his jeans and slams the album shut. He makes a note to himself to find a good hiding place for it in his backpack at the hotel – somewhere she will not discover it.

**………**

After lunch they are obligated to take a tour of the new shed. House ends up with his head under the bonnet of her father's powder blue, 1950's model Ford pickup, engaged in an enthusiastic conversation about carburetors. When Lee is summoned to the telephone to take a call from one of her aunts, her mother ushers House into a studio room and displays her works of art for him. She obviously has talent, but the subject matter is monotonous. Endless oil paintings of flora and fauna.

'Hmm,' he says, eyeing the canvases, 'I can see where Lee gets her artistic side.'

'Yeah,' Effie says rather dismissively, before adding, 'knock her up.'

'Beg pardon?' House says, trying to hide his amusement.

'Well,' she says, 'from what Lee tells me, this is a long term thing, and I want more grandchildren.'

'Ah….' House stutters.

'She'll tell you she doesn't want children. That's what she told me, but I reckon _you_ could change her mind.'

House stares blankly.

'Don't worry, no pressure,' Effie adds, 'within the next two years would be nice though.'

She pats his arm as if to say: 'there's a good boy,' as Lee's head appears at the door.

'We're going to the beach,' she says, before narrowing her eyes inquisitively upon recognising House's expression of bewilderment.

She holds her hand out to him, before opening and closing it quickly in a 'come here,' gesture.

'You ok?' she says, when he is by her side.

He nods.

**………**

'Why were your parents so… open-minded?' he says as they are changing into their swimming costumes in a spare bedroom.

'I told you they were harmless,' she says, hands on his hips, inspecting his shorts.

They are a perfect fit.

'Yeah, but it almost seemed – strange. I mean, if I had a daughter, and she presented me with me… ok, that doesn't make any sense, but you get what I mean right? I wouldn't be thrilled.'

'I primed them,' she says, 'I told them all about you – anything that they might find even slightly surprising. I told them that you are fifteen years older than me, that you walk with a cane, and that most people don't like you, but I absolutely adore you so they will too. I even told them about the miscarriage.'

'You did?'

He thinks this may explain her mother's rather odd request.

'Yeah,' she says, 'of course they weren't surprised at all.'

'They weren't?'

'No, well… of course learning about the miscarriage wasn't pleasant, but I mean, they weren't surprised to hear about you. They know I have absolutely no tolerance for ordinary, boring people, so that explains why they were not surprised to meet you… in all your quirky glory.'

'Besides,' she adds, 'you were turning on the charm.'

'Was not!' he retorts.

_'Oh, here Mrs Emerson, let me help you with the drinks_,' she says, mocking him.

'What, you don't think I am _ever_ capable of being polite? I can be, when the occasion calls for it.'

'I know,' she says, grinning.

'Thanks,' she adds.

He rolls his eyes.

'No, I mean thanks for wanting to do this. It would never have occurred to me.'

He nods.

**………**

Blue sky meeting with blue water and white sand. Fresh, clean air. Hot, bright, blindingly intense sunlight. Overwhelming – surreal.

They battle through the crowd and her parents unfold two large beach umbrellas.

'Pass the drinks would you Greg,' Michael says, because House is sitting closest to the icebox.

Lee unzips her sundress and shimmies it over her hips to her feet, revealing a black bikini. House pauses, holding a can of soft drink in each hand, mouth agape. It is not as if he hasn't ever seen her in a similar state of undress – in her underwear, or much, much less, but he cannot stop staring.

Passively, he hands the drinks to her father.

'Grease me up?' she says, handing House the sun lotion and turning her back to him.

He rubs the thick white liquid over her skin – feeling the grains of sand caught in it. The sand is everywhere – itching his scalp, between his toes and fingers, on his shorts, in his shorts, grinding between his teeth.

They approach the inviting aqua ocean and he leans on her, one arm around her shoulder. She is the perfect height for this. He had never imagined that her short stature would be so convenient. She doesn't seem to mind taking the full weight of his body. The sand is scorching hot under his feet and he decides that the sensation of the minuscule grains rubbing between his toes is curiously pleasant. The cold water laps at their toes. Little white bubbles and froth – shockingly cold against their sun-heated skin.

'Sit,' she says, lowering herself.

He complies, following her – his hand never leaving her shoulder.

His legs are involuntarily levitated in front of him – the buoyancy is a pleasant surprise. She moves between his legs and raises her sunglasses on top of her head, pushing her hair back out of her face.

'How long since you've been to the beach?' she asks.

He thinks slowly, the heat of the sun, the float of his body, and the calming lap of the surf on the shore lulling him into a drowsy state of relaxation.

'Hmmm, the last time was probably when I was about your age.'

She smiles, cupping her hand and raising it to dribble water over his chest. Her palm flattens on his skin and she kisses his collarbone.

She looks up at him, grinning, before kissing his salty wet mouth. Her breasts press against his chest through the wet Lycra of her bikini. The sand rubs and grinds over their skin, between their bodies.

'Your parents can see,' he says lackadaisically, 'everyone can see.'

'They don't care. I don't care. You don't care. Ok?' she says.

'Ok.' His hand moves to cradle her neck and he opens his mouth to hers.

**………**

'That was easy,' he says as they stroll through the reception of their hotel, wet, sandy and disheveled - fresh from the ocean.

His arm is still draped lazily around her shoulder. He is reluctant to remove it now that he has discovered this convenient resting place.

'What? Going to the beach?' she asks.

'Well, I meant meeting the parents, but yeah, going to the beach...'

'Ha, nothing fazes you,' she jokes.

They enter the elevator.

'If you don't hurry up, we're going to offend our fellow guests by fornicating in the hall,' he mumbles into her hair as she struggles with the swipe card at the door of their room.

'Well, you're really not helping my concentration,' she says.

The feel of his hard prick gently nudging her through his wet board shorts is flooding her system with arousal. She is flushing and throbbing at the thought of their sex.

Inside, he throws the skirt of her dress up, attempting to tug it over her head. The simple act of pulling it roughly from her body is arousing in itself.

'Careful,' she mutters, followed by something about buttons, but he silences her by kissing her hard and biting her lip.

Her bikini is removed quite efficiently with a swift tug to each of the knots at her neck and back, and falls heavily to the floor in a soggy heap. He is kissing her so hungrily that she has to touch each of her hands to his face and pull away slightly, before placing two quick pecks on his lips, communicating that he should slow down. He receives the message just as clearly as if she had verbally asked him to go slow – their sexual synchronization is impeccable.

He backs her up to the bed and lays her down, watching her watching him.

A careless pull on each of the strings at her hips and her bikini bottoms fall away as easily as her top.

He crawls over her body.

At his hips, her hands claw at the waistband of his swimming shorts until she hears the tear of the Velcro opening. Her knees rise at his sides and she laughs when he enters her. Just a gasp and then a short chuckle, and she doesn't know why. Maybe it is a laugh of relief. It is certainly a laugh of joy. It throws him off for a moment, and he stares at her questioningly but she smiles contently and says, 'don't worry, just kiss me,' and her hands travel over the dip of his lower back and come to rest on his ass – where she urges him to begin the cardinal movement of his hips in the blissful way that he fucks her.

He presses his elbows into the mattress, kissing her just as she has asked. She hooks her leg over his and groans – asking him to move in her, and when he does, she arches back into the pillow, crying out and exposing her breasts and throat for his assault. His lips and teeth caress and nip before his mouth becomes latched under her jaw like a suckerfish. He moves lazily in her as he creates what will later be a raspberry coloured love bite on her chin. Now, as he channels his effort and concentration to the essential movement of his hips, she holds him. Her hands span over his broad back and her lips and tongue clash with the hot, salty, sunburnt skin of his shoulder as he bears down on her and rubs against her. They both have damp hair and sandy bodies. While making love with abandon, they are also making an absolute mess of the sheets but they couldn't care less – even though they will have to sleep in these same sheets later. She moans and sighs and pants in his ear, and he has to kiss her again to silence her, because he knows her sounds will make him come too soon.

She feels his whiskers, newly growing already, abrading her tongue as they kiss messily, their mouths hardly meeting at times due to their rigorous movements.

Her orgasm is so prolonged that it is simply torturous. He hasn't finished, and so his cock continues stroking inside her while she is tender in the aftermath. She is extremely sensitive now, and somehow the sensation is so pleasurable that she is almost coming again. She releases a series of helpless whimpers and he loses it – gushing into her.

'Mmm,' he mumbles, still inside her, staring down, eyelids heavy and cheeks flushed, 'salty beach sex is good.'

He pulls out of her and rolls over in one swift movement.

'Hmm,' she mumbles in reply, 'any sex is good. We're so hot.'

He is sprawled on his back, chest rising and falling with the effort of his heavy breathing. She rolls onto him and kisses his flushed skin, tasting the salt of his sweat. She moves down his body to find his flaccid penis – coated in the cream of her arousal and still leaking tiny beads of semen. He lifts his head slightly, watching her, curious as to her motivations. She knows he doesn't like to be touched when he is sensitive after orgasm, but she wants to share her discovery with him that the sensation is remarkably nice.

'Ah…' he starts.

'Don't worry, it feels good... in a strange way,' she replies, before flicking her tongue over the blushing head of his cock, lapping up the remnants of his cum.

His body shudders violently and he cries out at the sharp, hot, pleasurable discomfort.

She takes him into her mouth now, sucking, cleaning him off.

Her lips move over the shaft of his cock as she removes it from her mouth, raising a brow as if to say: did you like it?

He nods and parts his legs wide for her.

'Keep going,' he says, his fingers lacing through her hair.

**………**

Much to their dismay, a mix-up has caused them to be seated on opposite sides of the airplane. Despite Lee's performance of a House-style tantrum (to his great delight), demanding a seating-change, they are forced to dodge bald heads, and hair-sprayed coiffures in order to view one another. As a result, they call out and throw things to each other across the aisle like badly behaved schoolchildren in a classroom. The flight attendants, who play the role of the teachers, have made many futile, _'I kindly ask you to refrain from…'_ requests. Their fellow passengers have turned up their noses and muttered comments about manners, and safety hazards. In boredom, he writes a story on the back of the movie-guide, folds it into a paper plane and sails it safely into her waiting hands. The story is about two escaped mental patients: a man with a cane, and a woman with crazy red hair who wreak havoc on an international Qantas flight and cause a devastating plane crash. The story is accompanied by cartoon pictures. He turns to watch her reaction and smiles a satisfied smile as she laughs loudly at this darkly humorous tale, clutching the movie-guide to her chest.

Fifteen hours into the journey – his leg is cramping badly and giving him hell. The lights in the cabin have been dimmed, and the noise is quieting to a dull rumble, with the occasional titter. When the woman seated beside him makes a trip to the toilet, she takes the opportunity to squeeze past her neighbours and join him.

'Whadda ya reckon?' she says, 'think we've sufficiently pissed everyone off?'

'Yeah,' he says, his voice somewhat strained, 'you're such a bad influence on me.'

'Oh, _I'm_ the bad influence?' she says.

He is cringing and clutching his leg.

'How bad is it?' she asks, registering the pain in his expression.

'Pretty bad,' he says.

He did not have to do this. It was an unnecessary sacrifice, and one which she is immensely grateful for. He did not have to board a plane and fly ten thousand miles to retrieve her. He could have simply reclined in his chair, lifted the phone, called her at the clinic and said: 'I want you back,' and she would have been on the next plane out of Australia. He knew this very well when he purchased the ticket.

'Here,' she says affectionately placing a warm hand on his thigh and rubbing therapeutically.

He releases a muffled groan and rests his head against the seat. Sure, he could do this himself, but it always feels so much better to have someone else do it. A woman two seats down, peers over her glasses, wrinkles her brow and shakes her head in disapproval. With Lee's back turned, her elbow jerking rhythmically, and House emitting quiet moans of relief, she could be forgiven for believing that they are engaging in a more suspicious, sordid activity. Both of them realise this. Neither of them care. She is able to stay with him, rubbing his thigh for a good ten minutes, before the woman, whose seat she is occupying, returns.

'We'll be home soon,' she whispers, 'ask the flight attendant for another Vodka tonic. Try and sleep.'

With a kiss on the cheek, and two on the lips, she returns to her own seat.


	37. XXXVII Revelations

XXXVII – Revelations

_But tell me, what have I done to deserve you?  
Must have done something cause that's how it works  
Must have been kind to kittens and birds,  
In a previous life must have thought happy thoughts...  
-_

_I Want to Sing- Regina Spektor_

………

'I can't believe you tried to replace me with a dog,' he says, eyeing the creature as they are preparing macaroni cheese for dinner in his townhouse.

_Their_ townhouse.

She had insisted on paying half the rent, though he had argued that it wasn't necessary.

'I just wanted some company,' she says, 'but he's not as much fun as you, and he's _not_ allowed in the bed,' she adds, wagging a reprimanding finger at Blue.

'Are they the only distinctions you can come up with?' he says.

She wrinkles her nose at him. 'I think he likes you.'

'Great,' he says sarcastically.

'He wasn't very fond of you in the beginning… you guys didn't get off to a very good start, but I think you'll be great mates.'

House looks at the dog. This creature, sharing his home? This must be love.

She swipes her hand over her face in an attempt to move a strand of loose hair, inadvertently smearing cheese sauce over her cheek.

He laughs at her.

'What?' she says, grinning.

He continues to laugh.

'What?' she demands.

'You've got cheese sauce on your face.'

'Where?'

'There,' he points.

'Here?' she says, wiping an area inches away from the spot.

'No there,' he says, pointing again.

'There?' she asks, missing the spot again.

'Oh here,' he says, gripping her face firmly with one hand under her chin and the other on top of her head.

His tongue protrudes and slaps against her skin as he licks her cheek exaggeratedly.

She laughs hysterically.

'Ok,' she gasps in between snorts of laughter, 'now it's becoming harder and harder to differentiate you from the dog.'

………

'Do you want to paint this place?' he asks, as they sit on opposite sides of the sofa facing one another, their knees and feet mixed together in a jumble, each holding a bowl of mac and cheese under their chin.

'Hmm?' she mumbles, her mouth full, cheeks bulging.

'You're so ladylike,' he teases.

She rolls her eyes and swallows her mouthful of food.

'I'm terribly sorry. Please repeat the question dear,' she jokes.

'Do you want to paint this place? Make it more Lee friendly.'

She smiles. 'It's Lee friendly,' she says, knocking her knees against his, 'it's my favourite place to be.'

'I'm aware that it screams _bachelor_,' he says, 'so, you know, you can paint it and move your own stuff in, if you want…'

He says this last comment reticently, looking into his bowl and stabbing his fork into the pasta mush.

When he looks up again, he finds that she has pushed her way in past his knees and is grinning in his face. She places a quick kiss on his lips before slumping back into her corner of the couch, still smiling at him.

'You're gorgeous,' she announces.

'I liked the décor in your old apartment,' he says defensively.

'I sold most of that stuff,' she says, 'or left it in Australia with Miranda.'

'What about your paintings and photos,' he says, 'you brought them back with you.'

'Yeah,' she nods.

He knows they are her prized possessions.

'I have plenty of walls,' he says, 'and some of the stuff I have up there is crap.'

He gestures to the wall.

'You have much better taste,' he adds, looking into his bowl again.

'Alright,' she says, 'my original Norman Lindsey pencil drawing has no place in the hall closet.'

'Good,' he says, 'we'll put that one up first then.'

………

He offers to take her to the hospital on his bike.

She agrees.

He waits for her as she readies herself for work.

She progresses through her morning ritual, and he closes the lid on the toilet seat so that he can sit and watch her. She pulls her hair back and splashes her face with water. She cleans her teeth and she moves to stand in front of him while she does this so that she can touch his face with her free hand, her fingers dancing softly over his features as she brushes. She pays particular attention to the line of whiskers just bellow his bottom lip, and she ponders the fact that her tongue always seems to be pressed flat against this when she kisses him. She squeezes his nose playfully before returning to the sink to floss. She applies various lotions and potions. She sprays her antiperspirant. She swallows her little pink pill and he feels like saying: _Do you really need to take that? Would it be so bad if you got pregnant again?_

He is simultaneously horrified and contented by this thought of his.

He thinks it is rather Catholic, but in a way, he feels bad for deliberately preventing something that should occur so naturally out of love.

'I'm going to Canada for a week,' she announces.

'When?'

'Friday. There's a conference in Ontario.'

'Oh,' he says simply. She can sense the disappointment in his voice.

'Cuddy's conditions for re-hiring me.'

She watches him staring into the shower.

'I'll bring you a souvenir,' she says, joking, 'maple syrup?'

He turns to her and forces a smile.

'Come on,' she says, patting his knee as she moves past him, 'I'll get dressed, lets go to work.'

………

People have started to talk. They have tried, half-heartedly, to remain inconspicuous but it is the subtle things that give them away. It is in the way she looks at him, the smile she gives him. It is in the way his rate of speech slows when she passes his office, the way his head turns to watch her, the obvious shift in his attention. They thought it would have been obvious when they arrived together on his bike. He had expected it to be their grand entrance together, and yet no one was there to witness it, and he found himself disappointed by this.

At lunch time, they walk down the main hall side by side. There is a good, professional, distance between them, half an arms length. Though they do not say a word to each other, they both display a smug smile, as if they are concealing a salacious secret. They stride confidently together – her hips swaying as she takes easy steps in her five inch heels and his cane moving in perfect synchronisation with his long legs. Wilson watches them from his position by the elevator. He hadn't even been aware of House's return, and is especially surprised by Lee's return. In fact, he hadn't even been aware of House's departure until Cuddy had informed him of his 'long service leave.' The man had been especially reclusive in the weeks before he had left New Jersey – he hadn't confided in his best friend the way he used to, although, Wilson had suspected that he had gone to Australia to retrieve her.

………

Wilson finds the couple sharing lunch under an umbrella shaded table at the café outside the hospital. He sits opposite them, beaming.

'Hey,' he says.

'_Hey!'_ Lee replies, smiling, touching his arm.

'How are things?' Wilson asks.

House rolls his eyes, imagining that Wilson is refraining from squeaking excitedly like school girl: _'oh my god, you guys are back together!'_

'Good,' Lee says, nodding.

Wilson notices that House allows Lee to hold his hand under the table.

'Nice tan,' Wilson says to House.

'Thanks,' he replies unenthusiastically, 'got it in Oz.'

'Have a good… holiday?'

'Yeah, we got up to all sorts of things,' Lee says, 'he even met Effie and Mick.'

'Who are Effie and Mick?' Wilson asks.

'My parents,' Lee replies nonchalantly, sipping from the straw of her milkshake.

Wilson raises a brow, '_really?_'

'Yeah,' she replies, 'it was his idea.'

'_Really?'_ Wilson repeats.

'Ok, enough,' House says, snatching Lee's milkshake and removing the plastic lid and straw so that he is able to gulp mouthfuls of the drink from the cup instead of sipping elegantly as Lee had.

After a moment of guzzling, he places the empty cup back on the table, emitting a thirst quenching _'ah,'_ sound and wiping the milk from his moustache with the back of his hand.

'We're back together, the world is still turning, get over it,' he says to Wilson, before standing and limping through the automatic doors of the building's entrance.

'I see he's the same old lovable House,' Wilson says, sighing.

'Yep,' Lee confirms with a smile.

………

In the afternoon, Cuddy accosts Wilson in the hall.

'What's going on with House?' she asks.

'What sort of question is that? There are all sorts of things going on with House, he's House! You're going to have to be more specific.'

'Ok, what's going on with House and Dr Emerson?'

Wilson jolts. 'What? Nothing.'

His discomfort is visible. He is a bad liar – one of the reasons he has left two failed marriages in his wake. Cuddy narrows her eyes. She knows that he knows _something_.

'So it's just a coincidence that she returns from Australia the same time he returns from long service leave?'

'Why not?'

'Oh. Well I swear that this morning, I saw House wink at Dr Emerson,' she says.

'Right, and that means…'

'You know what else? I also saw House with his hand in the jar of candy on the clinic reception desk. I saw him with a red lollipop in his mouth as he entered one of the consultation rooms. I was distracted by a phone call, but when I looked back minutes later, I saw Dr Emerson emerge from the same consultation room, with what I swear was the _same_ red lollipop in her mouth.'

'What are you saying?' Wilson asks.

'I'm not saying, I'm asking… is there something going on between those two?'

Wilson turns away from her. It makes the lying easier.

'If there is, then this is the first I've heard of it…' he says, walking towards the elevator.

………

Determined to find answers, later in the afternoon Cuddy follows House when she notices him taking the elevator to the psyc ward. After conversing with the receptionist he enters Dr Emerson's office. She waits – gives them time to start doing whatever it is they do. After five minutes she approaches the room. She hears male and female laughter. She opens the door abruptly. What she sees startles her, although it is not as sordid as some of the scenarios that had run through her mind. Lee sits on one end of the sofa, House sits on the other. House is eating a sandwich - his third for the day, and has his feet resting on Lee's lap. His shoes lay discarded on the floor and Lee is massaging one of his feet. All three doctors pause – House with his sandwich half way to his mouth. Cuddy allows the door to close behind her and crosses her arms. Her eyes are wide, her mouth agape.

House is the first to speak.

'Can we help you? Are we in trouble? We're on an afternoon break, I've finished clinic duty…'

'She's… she's giving you a _foot rub!_' Cuddy interrupts.

'Yeah. She's pretty good, you want in?' he says, disregarding the apparent intimacy of their current arrangement.

'What… are you two… _seeing each other_?'

'That depends,' House replies, 'on what you mean by _seeing_ each other, cos if I look over at her now,' he looks at Lee, 'I am seeing her, and I'm pretty sure she's seeing me. If I look at you,' he looks at Cuddy, 'I'm seeing you.'

'You know what I mean,' Cuddy says impatiently.

'Ah! You want to know if she's been rubbing any other parts of my anatomy?' House says.

Cuddy waves her hand dismissively. 'You know what, I don't want to know, just… keep it professional.'

She regards them for a moment longer before turning and exiting the room. Outside the door, she smiles to herself.

'I think we have just been outed,' House says, grinning.

Lee smiles. 'I guess so.'

He continues eating his sandwich, she continues massaging his foot.

……

In their home, he watches her from the couch. She is rushing to catch the taxi to the airport. She has numerous bags and a suitcase, and is frantically fussing with keys by the door.

He is aware that while she constantly reminds him of how much she appreciates him – _I love you. I adore you. You're beautiful. You're gorgeous,_ he finds it difficult to say these same things to her. When she is organised, and her hand touches the doorknob, he says: 'hey,' and she stops and turns back to him, cringing as if to say 'I don't have time.'

'Thanks for sticking around,' he says quietly.

This is his way of thanking her, of saying all of the things he wishes he could say. This is his way of saying that he appreciates her.

She dumps her luggage by the door, strides back to the sofa, sinks into the cushion beside him and kisses him reassuringly.

'Thanks for letting me,' she says, smiling, her eyes glassy with tears.

'You're my best friend,' he says, 'don't tell Wilson.'

She giggles and the rude honk of the taxicab interrupts them.

'See you soon,' she says, kissing his lips in farewell.

He nods and she moves to the door, glancing over her shoulder once to smile at him.

He feels a pang of deep melancholy each time he sees her walk through that door, because each time, though he knows it is not likely, he considers the fact that she may not return. He considers the idea that while she is away from him, she may realize that she no longer cares for him, or that she never did care for him to begin with - she may suddenly be aware that she deserves much better.

A week later, at the airport, she spots him immediately standing tall above everyone else, leaning on his cane. Her smile comes uncontrollably, spreading across her face. She hugs him in greeting.

'Take me home,' she says.

Inside the front door she throws her suitcase onto the sofa. She unzips it quickly and produces a brown paper bag.

'I did get you a souvenir,' she says, 'but its way better than Maple syrup.'

He opens the bag to find a rare Led Zeppelin LP and a packet of Cuban cigars.

He is surprised. She is ecstatic.

'Oh my god,' he says, 'where did you find this?'

'Markets in Canada, can you believe it?'

'No,' he kisses her, 'thanks.'

They smoke cigars and listen to the original version of '_The Immigrant Song,_' lying on the rug in the centre of the lounge area.

'I didn't know you smoke,' he says, eying her.

'I don't,' she says, winking at him and blowing smoke rings.

There is a routine, he has noticed, each time they are reunited. She has to exercise each of her five senses. She has to see him – stare into his eyes. She has to touch him – her hands move over his chest, his hands, his jaw, his lips. She has to smell and taste him – inhaling him as she kisses his neck. She has to listen – resting her head on his chest momentarily to hear the beat of his heart.

………

At work on Monday, she buys candy from the vending machine and visits his office with the intention of sharing it as if they are schoolchildren at recess. Much to her disappointment, her lunch buddy is not present. She passes the pathology lab while making her way back to her office and notices Forman and Chase though the glass walls of the room. Chase is seated on a stool, gazing intently into a microscope as Forman stands by his side, conversing with him, and intermittently flicking through a medical journal.

'Hey guys, do you have a second?' she asks, after opening the door.

The two men pause, halting their conversation and staring at Lee.

After a moment, Forman says: 'yeah, what's up?'

'Have you seen House?' she asks, entering the room.

'Not in the last hour,' Forman says, before adding: 'fortunately,' with a smirk.

'What did you need him for?' Chase asks.

She is distracted by the images on the large computer screen.

'Ah…consult for a patient,' she lies.

'What's that?' she asks, pointing to the screen.

'Biopsy of lung tissue,' Chase says, utilising his best impressive doctor's voice.

'The image is being projected from the microscope,' Forman adds.

'Oh,' she says, sounding impressed, 'can I see?'

She motions toward the microscope.

Chase raises his brow, glancing at Forman as if to say: 'I'm in.'

'Sure,' he says, wheeling the stool aside and gesturing for her to stand in front of the microscope – close to him.

She bends neatly, folding her body at a 90 degree angle and unintentionally exposing her inner thigh to Chase through the high split of her black pencil skirt. Her skirt is matched with a tight burgundy cardigan, black stockings and sharp black stilettos. The cardigan isn't terribly low cut, but the top buttons have loosened, and from his height, Chase has a perfect view of her cleavage and the black lace of her bra. He watches her perfect pale breasts and he breathes the scent of her musky perfume. Meanwhile, Forman pretends to read his journal article, lifting his eyes above the book every few seconds to glance at her ass. None of them had noticed, but House had passed the lab and had retraced his steps after seeing Lee bent over, being ogled by his two male employees. He had returned past the lab and entered through the adjoining room, hiding behind a shelf to watch the scene unfold.

'Why is it blue?' Lee asks, moving away from the microscope.

Chase and Forman immediately and obviously avert their eyes.

'Chemical dye,' Chase stammers.

'Cool,' she says, smiling before moving to the door, 'if you see House, tell him I was looking for him.'

'Whoa!' Chase exclaims as his eyes follow Lee down the hall, 'is she _hot_ or what?'

Forman nods, grinning as he flicks the pages of the journal. 'She is fine.'

'You know what they say about redheads?' Chase says, his head still turned to the door.

'What?'

'Firecrackers in bed.'

Forman rolls his eyes.

'I bet she's _really_ dirty,' Chase says, thinking aloud.

In the adjoining room, House furrows his brow and narrows his eyes.

'Ah man!' Forman exclaims with a hint of mild disgust.

'What!' Chase exclaims, embarrassed.

Forman shakes his head.

'I might ask her out,' Chase says, hands moving to his hips.

'Her?' Forman says.

'Yeah, why not? Same nationality…we'd have plenty to talk about. But who knows… maybe we won't be doing much talking…'

'Yeah, right.'

'You're just jealous cos I'm gonna get me some _strawberry tart_,' Chase says cockily.

At this moment, House appears from behind the shelf, moving swiftly. He stops in front of the two men, and deliberately presses his cane onto the toe of Chase's shoe.

'Ow!' Chase exclaims.

'Don't you two idiots have work to do?' House shouts.

'House,' Forman says, 'Dr Emerson was just looking for you…'

'I know,' House interrupts, 'and do you know why she was looking for me?' he says, glaring at Chase.

The two men stand - noses an inch apart.

'I'm guessing she was going to ask me about dinner plans,' House says, 'because at the end of the day, _she's coming home with me!_'

Chase's mouth drops open. Forman sniggers.

'That's right. No strawberry tart for you! Sorry to disappoint, _Romeo_,' House spits, before exhaling a deep breath, surprised at his outburst.

………

Forman and Chase enter the conference room, laughing to themselves.

'What?' Cameron asks, peering over her reading glasses.

'You know that psychologist – the redhead, Australian?' Chase says, sitting opposite Cameron at the table.

'Yeah,' Cameron says, eyeing Forman as he continues to chuckle quietly in the corner.

'House is _doing her!'_

Cameron jolts upright in her chair. She had not expected to hear this. She had expected to hear that the woman had attended school with Chase, or that she was his latest conquest.

'What? How do you know?' she demands.

'_He told us,'_ Chase says, matter-of-factly, laughing again.

'Oh, right,' Cameron says doubtfully, imagining that somehow, they had misinterpreted one of House's sick jokes.

'No, seriously,' Chase adds, 'he heard me talking about asking her out, and he got up in my face and told me that she was going home with _him_ tonight.'

At the conclusion of this sentence, Chase sits back in his chair, folds his arms across his chest and smiles a satisfied smile.

Cameron looks at Forman. 'Is that true?' she asks.

'Yeah,' he says with a quick nod.

'I can't believe House gets to _hit that_,' Chase adds.

At this moment, House enters the conference room though the door of his office.

'House also gets to hit _this_, literally…' he says, hitting Chase over the head with the heavy textbook in his possession, '…whenever he overhears a conversation about his private life.'

………

On Saturday night, she emerges from the bedroom wearing tight black stove-pipe jeans, a couture corset top, a silver bolero cardigan and killer heels. She has straightened her hair and is wearing her trademark red lipstick.

'_Oh my god,' _he mumbles lustfully as she enters the kitchen to stand beside him.

She smiles and holds her hands out at her sides, presenting herself as if she were a game show co-host in a sequined gown.

'You like?' she says.

He grunts in response.

He takes her in his arms. One hand moves immediately to her ass and the other moves over her back and shoulders.

'You're so hot,' he says, burying his face in the hair falling over her shoulder, 'mmm, and you smell _fantastic_.'

His teeth nip at her throat and his tongue flicks out to soothe each tiny pinch.

'Stay here with me,' he says quietly.

'I can't, I promised I'd have drinks with the girls,' she says, disentangling herself from his embrace.

He wants to say: _come home soon,_ but he refrains.

He watches her, sulking.

She smiles, scanning his expression.

'I will,' she says.

'What?' he asks.

'Be home soon.'

She is home within the hour, settling into his lap on the recliner, holding his face to hers and nuzzling into the crook of his neck.

'The girls bored me,' she says, 'I kept thinking of coming home to you, and so I did.'

He unbuckles her shoes, discarding them on the floor, and holding and squeezing one of her tiny feet in his large warm hand.

'Let's go to bed,' he says.

………

When they are in bed, naked – just a moment before they are joined, he says something to make her pause.

'Did you take the pill every morning this week?'

'What?' she says, sitting beside him, her state of arousal diminishing rapidly.

She wonders what has prompted this inquiry. She wonders if he may be accusing her of something, though the tone of his voice had not been accusatory.

He doesn't repeat the question, because it hadn't been logically composed – it shouldn't have been stated once, let alone twice.

'Yeah,' she says reassuringly, 'don't worry, I'm extra careful. It won't happen again.'

She kisses his forehead, and he is thinking that she has misinterpreted his intent.

'We can use condoms if you want,' she offers, 'I probably have some in my purse.'

She turns to move off the bed, but his firm grip on her arm halts her.

'No,' he says definitely.

With a swift tug, she is back in position and he is kissing her insistently

………

Making love.

Nearly every night they make love – the novelty simply will not wear off.

'Lee,' he says ruefully, as she writhes above him, rocking against him, her hands splayed and moving affectionately over the bare skin of his chest. She recognises the tone of his voice. He is going to ask her a question. She thinks he has chosen a most inappropriate moment.

'_Yeah?'_ she breathes quietly, arching back.

He releases a helpless whimper at the sensation of her shifting on him, at the sight of her, braced against him. The shapes of her, the colours. Her skin glows in the dim orange light from the bedside lamp. The beautiful angularity of her ribs below her breasts – only obvious when her body is arched in pleasure. Her hair falls over her shoulders in soft waves as her head drops back – her eyes closed contently.

'Are you happy?' he asks.

At this, her eyes flick open and her head drops forward. She offers a warm, closed lip smile.

'Deliriously.'

She lifts his hands at either side and weaves her fingers through his.

She watches his face, smiling the way she does when she knows she is about to make him come.

'_Agh!'_ he moans simply as his hips buck to her. She feels his hands tightening their grip on hers. She feels the warm release inside her.

Still smiling, she lays down – her chest against his, her head beside him on the pillow. His lips touch her ear and in this moment he wants to say, _please don't ever leave me._

* * *

Thanks to those of you who are still faithfully reading (and reviewing). I can't tell you how much I appreciate your comments, and your encouragement to continue on with this LONG fic :) 


	38. XXXVIII Prospects

Ok, this fic is now positively dripping with sap…

It's fluffy with a capital F!

* * *

XXXVIII - Prospects

Fell into the abyss,

I must have wanted this,

Another myth exploded,

-

Pure Pleasure Seeker, Moloko

'I see… a rabbit,' she announces.

'Oh, that's boring!' he contends.

'I can't help it, that's just what I see. What do you see?'

'I see… a ship, with full riggings and sails, battling over the tumultuous stormy seas…' he says, his finger pointing at the billowy, animated, cumulous clouds in the sky, his arm swaying like a conductor with a baton.

She giggles. 'You do not!'

They lay side by side on the soft earth, damp grass soaking the fabric of their clothing, a sycamore tree shading them with its dappled canopy.

A warm, lazy, nebulous Sunday afternoon.

'Maybe that's what you want to see,' she says.

'This is like a Rorschach inkblot test. Your interpretations of the shapes of the clouds are an insight into the deepest recesses of your psyche,' she adds jovially, rolling on her side and pressing two fingers to his forehead to make her point.

'What does it mean if I want to see a ship?' he asks doubtfully.

'I don't know,' she says, 'maybe you want to travel more?'

He nods. 'Triumph motorcycle,' he says pointing to her left.

'That cloud doesn't look anything like a motorcycle,' she says.

'I know,' he responds, 'but that's what I want.'

'That one looks like a bottle of champagne,' she says, 'the cork has popped and it's bubbling over.'

'It does,' he says, 'but I'm uncovering some phallic symbology.'

He rolls on his side and pulls her body against his, causing her to squeal with delight.

'_I know what you want,'_ he teases.

'You're right,' she responds, pressing her hands on his shoulders, urging him to lay on his back and lifting her leg over his resting body to settle into his lap, 'but I always want that.'

'You do too. You have the sex drive of a sixteen year old boy.'

'It's your fault,' she says staring down at him.

'Fault? No, it's my pleasure,' he exclaims, raising his eyebrows and slipping his hands under the material of her tank top to flatten on her naked belly.

She begins moving on him, swaying ever so slightly. Denim against denim.

She wears _Sass & Bide_ jeans. He doesn't know what this means – he assumes it is a fashion statement – but he _does know_ that they sit _really_ low on her hips and make her ass look _fantastic_.

'You know,' he says, thinking aloud, 'you have the most divine derrière.'

He gropes this part of her anatomy for effect.

She smiles and leans forward, smoothing her hands over the material of his t-shirt, grinding into him, her hair falling over her face. She swivels her hips in a circular motion, simulating sex.

'What are you doing?' he asks, as she continues to writhe on top of him.

'Oh, I'm just teasing,' she says, smirking, shifting her hips again, biting her bottom lip upon feeling him hardening beneath her.

'Don't you think it would be better if we lost the jeans?'

'You want to have sex in a field?' she asks, arching back, planting her hands in the grass at either side of him.

'Ah, now that you're getting all frisky in my lap I do!'

'I don't think so,' she says, 'what if Farmer Joe lets his cows out?'

'Well,' he groans, 'if you keep that up, I'll be done very soon anyway.'

She stops moving at this, and lies beside him.

'Ah!' he exclaims in disappointment.

She displays a mock pout on his behalf.

'Look what you've done,' he says, gesturing to the bulge behind the fly of his Levi's, 'I can't ride the bike with this.'

She raises a brow.

'So you're saying that we can't go home until I take care of this?' she says, cupping his erection.

He shudders and nods with a grin.

'I'm not taking my jeans off in a field, in broad daylight,' she says, 'but what if I…?'

She swiftly unbuckles his belt and unzips his fly. She has his boxers out of the way and has taken him into her mouth before he can whimper:

'_I suppose that will do…'_

He moans softly as she works her tongue. His fingers tangle in her hair and he smiles contently, watching the illustrative clouds passing slowly above – his own personal carousel slideshow. After a moment, he props himself on his elbows to watch her head bobbing slowly in his lap. The sight of himself buried deep in her throat causes him to mumble and moan.

'O_h god, Lee.'_

By now she knows how to work him, and it only takes a few minutes before he comes, grunting and tearing fistfuls of grass from the earth. As usual, she swallows without so much of a flinch and grins at him from between his legs.

'Think you can manage to ride the bike now?'

**………**

He had bought her a helmet and she had cried and told him that it was the best gift a man had ever given her.

Flowers, chocolates, diamonds – yawn.

The helmet is representative of his readiness to welcome her into his life.

He passes it to her now as they stand beside his bike.

After a brief moment of consideration he diffidently says, 'that one looks like a baby carriage,' as he zips his leather jacket and gazes at the sky.

'What?'

'Right there, see?'

'Ah, no,' she replies dismissively.

'Look,' he says, taking her arm and using her finger to point, 'there's the handle, there are the wheels…'

'Ok,' she says, interrupting him and breaking free of his embrace, 'I don't even want to try and interpret that one!'

He notices something in her eyes only momentarily – sheer terror, before she blinks this expression away, slaps his arm playfully and emits a snort of laughter.

His tenderness and conviction in this insinuation seems to have frightened her.

He finds himself saddened and disappointed. This had been his method of appealing to her. He had thought it was the perfect means to communicate his wish – it was obvious, given their earlier discussion, but also subtle enough to be denied in the case of an unfavourable reaction.

And this is what he has received – an unfavourable reaction.

She has shut him down.

**………**

They return home to find Wilson waiting on their front step.

'Oh look honey,' House says sarcastically, 'it's a stray. Can we keep him?'

'Hey James,' Lee says, using his first name because he had insisted.

Inside the front door, Blue paws and claws and slobbers over Wilson.

'Oh,' House groans, 'I forgot, we already have a pet,' he flashes Wilson an expression of mock apology, 'we can't have two, sorry – back to the pound for you.'

'Blue, _get down!_' Lee commands, pulling the dog's tail to distract him from Wilson.

The animal turns and snaps playfully at her, before lavishing her with the same ridiculously excessive adoration.

'What were you doing sitting on our front step like an abandoned orphan anyway?' House asks.

'I came to see if you guys wanted to go out next Saturday night?'

'Ever heard of a telephone?'

'I wanted to ask you in person.'

'You mean, you're bored and lonely and you wanted to see what we're up to,' House says, 'oh that's so cute, you wanna hang with us – ever heard of the expression: the _third wheel.'_

'I just thought we could catch up, you know…' Wilson offers.

'Alright,' House says, 'we'll go out with you, but I have to warn you, we like to sit in the back row of the movie theatre so we can suck face.'

'We're not going to the Movies,' Wilson announces.

'Right, where then?' House asks, 'Bowling? Karaoke? Paintball? Arcade? Baseball? Monster Trucks? You'll notice the fun factor rises incrementally – stop me before I get to five star cruise.'

'Dinner, at _Salt_, I've made reservations,' Wilson responds.

House cocks an eyebrow.

'Oh my, a romantic dinner for _three._ He's trying to seduce us,' House says, turning to Lee.

'Why don't you just come out and ask,' he says, turning back to Wilson, 'you wanna have a threesome.'

'I made reservations at _Salt,_' Wilson says, 'because I want a nice civilized evening.'

'Well I don't know if we're free next weekend,' House says, testing, 'what about tomorrow night?'

'No!' Wilson says rather urgently, 'it has to be next weekend!'

House narrows his eyes and stares interrogatingly.

'What are you up to?' he demands.

'Nothing!' Wilson says sheepishly.

'_Nothing!'_ House repeats – mocking his friend's suspicious tone.

'I just thought we could celebrate – you know – you guys getting back together,' Wilson says timidly.

'That's very nice of you,' Lee says, raising herself to balance on the tips of her Converse shoes so that she is able to peek over House's shoulder, her arms circling his middle, 'we'd love to.'

'Right, get the girl on your side with your bashful blushing and thoughtfulness,' House says to Wilson before turning to Lee, 'he's up to something you know.'

She shrugs her shoulders. 'So, we'll get a free meal out of it, I'm sure he's going to offer to pay…'

She winks at Wilson because she assumes that he _is_ up to something.

'Sure,' Wilson agrees quickly.

'You know, I'm getting curiouser by the second,' House warns, scrutinising a very guilty looking Wilson.

'Wanna stay for dinner?' Lee says to Wilson, 'we were just going to order pizza.'

'Yeah ok, sure, why not?'

'Because you're a _third wheel!_' House says.

'Beer?' Lee offers, moving to the kitchen.

Wilson nods.

'I was about to challenge him to a game of _Tomb Raider: Legend,' _she continues, 'because, he doesn't agree, but _I_ am the best Lara Croft there is. The aim is too see who can keep her alive for longest – without using med packs – he keeps throwing her off of buildings!'

'I don't throw her off,' House insists, 'she keeps doing back flips – she's suicidal!'

'That's cos you keep pressing the L1 button, hon,' Lee replies, before turning back to Wilson.

'You up for it?' she asks.

'I've… never played,' Wilson replies hesitantly, and with a hint of disinterest at her childish suggestion.

'You'll love it,' she says, 'who knows – maybe _you're_ the best Lara Croft there is…'

**………**

A slither of sunlight peeking through the curtains wakes him gently. He is at the very edge of the bed with his arm forced under a folded pillow, his face half buried. She is standing in the doorway, grinning at him as if she has something to say. He lifts his head and grins in return. He notices that she holds her hands behind her back.

'What have you done?' he mumbles, his deep voice crackling.

She takes two steps forward, and presents him with a plate.

'I got Wilson's recipe for Macadamia nut pancakes,' she says, smiling proudly.

'No way!' he exclaims, sitting up and punching the pillow behind him to support his back.

'Yes way,' she says, sitting and delivering the plate to his lap.

'Where did you come from woman?' he asks, staring, awed.

She watches, satisfied, as he frantically shreds the pancakes with the knife and fork and shovels them into his mouth.

'Just don't expect this sort of treatment every morning,' she says, 'generally, I don't have a domestic bone in my body. I burned about three batches of these before I perfected them.'

'Mmm,' he mumbles, 'but you have perfected them…'

'So…' he continues, hinting.

'No way honey,' she says, 'I can do mac and cheese, spaghetti bolognaise and beans on toast, oh and I can cook a good piece of steak, but that's where my culinary skills end.'

'Well, if I had just wanted someone to cook and clean up after me I could have hired a housekeeper,' he says.

She knows this is his effort at a meaningful complement and so she leans to him and kisses his lips.

'Mmm, maple syrup,' she says, sliding one arm around his shoulder, placing a hand on his cheek, and planting a series of more substantial kisses on his mouth.

'Pancakes _and_ sex, first thing in the morning,' he says, 'watch out, I really could get used to this...'

If he was to be perfectly honest, he would admit that he had been doubtful of this arrangement – this cohabitation. Previously, they had only witnessed the best of each other. It was just great sex, laughing and talking for hours, and then time apart – no toenail clipping, or influenza germ sharing. But he is impressed. She is easy to live with – if anything, he is the difficult roommate. He thinks she is amazing. She laughs when he burps in front of her and she doesn't care when he leaves the toilet seat up.

'Why should I care?' she says, 'if you leave it up, I have to put it down and if I leave it down, you have to put it up, its much of a muchness isn't it?'

'You're a fantastic woman,' he says in response.

He has set many domestic traps for her. He has strategically placed piles of unwashed clothing and papers all around and she has hardly noticed.

She has bad habits to rival his.

In the study, their belongings have become indistinguishable. Often, he begins reading a report – believing it is one of his own, only to discover that it is hers. Disrespectful of patient confidentiality, definitely not ethical – and so much like him. There are stacks of books and papers as far as the eye can see – she has created a small city of sky scrapers on the carpet – complete with roads: paths for navigation throughout the room.

As a test, he leaves piles of dishes in the sink and after four days she laughs and says: 'I think we need to buy new dishes…'

'You don't care?' he asks.

'No Greg,' she says, 'I don't care. We should buy paper plates… no that's bad for the environment… never mind we have take out most nights… if worst comes to worst, we can dispose of them and buy new plates…maybe we should get a dishwasher, no matter what, I'm not fighting with you about whose going to do the dishes, there are more important things to argue about…'

'Like what?' he asks

'Like whose going to be on top tonight,' she digs her fingers into his ribs as she throws her head back and releases her most hearty laugh.

He grins in response, digging his own fingers into her flesh, wondering how he managed to hit the jackpot. Sure, she has the usual feminine hang ups – collecting shoes, painting her toenails and leaving the scent of rose petals in her wake, but she changes the oil in his car, she couldn't give a crap about washing powder or the correct way a shirt should be folded, she doesn't squeal at the sight of a bug, and she will eat a big Mac burger, fries and a beer without concern for cellulite. She was even cool when one day, he called her Stacy by accident. He had paused in fear, anticipating the outburst but she had only laughed at the expression on his face. He had become more scared by her laughing – wondering if she was so angry that it had come out all wrong.

'Relax,' she had said, 'I know it was a mistake, I know how things are stored in the brain…I'm just hoping my name got mixed up with hers because they are both stored in the _women I have been fond of at some stage or another_, category in your memory.'

Stunned, he had nodded, saying 'yes that's it.'

After the Stacy name calling incident he had wondered if she may be too lenient. He hated to think that she was so enamoured with him, that she had become dutiful and weak, but she had quickly provided evidence against this theory. She was tolerant and her love was unwavering, but she was gently stubborn. Whenever he would attempt to brush her off with a hurtful comment or gesture, she would simply raise her eyebrows as if to say 'is that the best you can do?' He knows it is his most pathetic quality – his ability to spit cheap hurt at those he loves and he views himself disdainfully when he considers it. But she is able to subtly let him know that she will not stand for it, and she always has him apologising profusely - like he has done to no other. They fight occasionally, and it is often his fault. He knows subconsciously, that it is another one of the tests he sets for her.

'I am always concerned when a couple comes to me and says they never fight,' she had said once, 'the warning sirens go off – it means someone is biting their tongue and it only turns sour in the end. I want you to always tell me when I piss you off,' she had said.

She does so very infrequently, but he complies with her instructions and she reciprocates by telling him when he has annoyed her. She calls their arguments 'healthy fighting,' because she is a psychologist and it is probably one of the phrases she uses in therapy, but also because they always end up genuinely forgiving one another and making love.

She has some mornings off work, when she has no appointments with patients. She sleeps in and rolls around in the bed, watching him as he dresses.

'Greg,' she teases, 'come back to bed and do me…'

Some mornings he does, and some mornings he is running so late that he bypasses the opportunity because he cannot bare the thought of Cuddy storming down the corridor after him.

He adores the way she looks in the morning. Her hair is a red mess and her lips are always slightly more swollen than usual. Her cheeks are often flushed, she always grins at him while she is half asleep and she has lines on her face from sleeping on his pillow. She often sleeps in a singlet and tiny shorts with knee socks and he wonders why he finds the look so erotic. He thinks it is because her thighs are the only part of her legs that are exposed – her perfectly shaped thighs, soft and inviting. The look suggests sex, in some sort of strange 1980's _Flash Dance_ way. The socks have red and green and blue and white and orange horizontal stripes and separate sections for each toe like gloves. He asks her about them one day.

'They're _cat in a hat_ socks,' she says, pointing to the _Dr Seuss_ picture, 'My nephew gave them to me.'

'And how old is your nephew?'

'He's seven.'

He laughs.

She grins and shrugs, 'they're one size fits all.'

'I bet they wouldn't fit me.'

'You wish they would, you love them!' she teases.

They laugh and he makes a note to ask her to keep them on the next time they have sex in the morning.

Domestic Bliss.

But it is a strange paradox, because the better it gets, the worse it gets.

His thoughts are disordered.

His contentment is discontenting.

Before her, his life was bleak – it was simply a series of routines to fill the hours. Sleeping, eating, working, talking, walking, watching, listening, yawning, bathing, pill-popping. Life had never done him any favours – until it had presented him with Lee. Of course, he needed her presence to realise just how bleak his existence had been. In the early stages of their relationship, she would flutter in and out of his life and during the times she was out – living her own life, it was as if the electricity supply to his townhouse had been cut – as if he had been left alone in the dark with no central heating. In retrospect, this is obvious to him. He realises that he can't seem to survive as well without her, but still, there is a sense of instability. He had a life before, and although it was a desolate existence, it was his existence – it was what he was used to, it was his way of dealing.

She has thrown things off balance.

He needs to adjust. This is a major transition, and he knows it will not be easy. She has stirred things in him, raised questions. It had been simple before. He had taken the easy route: wall yourself off and you won't have to do the hard work – you won't have to trust in anyone else, you'll only have yourself to understand. Of course he never did understand himself, and he found himself to be bad company. He was able to live with himself – to tolerate himself, but as Wilson had so poignantly pointed out: he did not like himself. The frequent time alone had allowed many opportunities for negative self appraisal – and as much as he is loathe to admit it, he had only been building on his father's foundations.

She has begun to change this though.

Lovely little Leora – his light.

It is as if his mind is a room. A dark room in a vacant house where the furniture has been covered with sheets, and years worth of dust has settled. But now someone has entered this room, and the dust has been stirred. The curtains have been drawn and the sunlight streams in and highlights the room and every one of the tiny particles of dust can be seen – dancing. The person in the room is fate – circumstance, this is what has brought her into his life. She is the light. The dust is his meaning, his understanding of the world and of himself and it is her job to help illuminate this – to help the dust re-settle in the right places.

He sees himself in a different way when he is with her. He sees that he is able to let his guard down, he sees that he is able to relax, he is able to adore and cherish. He is able to love.

And he likes what he sees. He _likes himself_ when he is with her.

When she touches him and holds him like it hurts her to let go, when she kisses him in random places: his kneecap, his shoulder, his fingertips, his hipbone – she behaves as if his body is sacred – as if it is the most beautiful thing to her, and it makes him feel _attractive_.

The glint in her eyes makes him feel wanted, desirable.

The way she so obviously enjoys herself during sex makes him feel useful – able rather than disabled.

He likes the feeling of being in love with her.

Although, the helplessness that it also affords, frightens him.

And he is unsure. He is unsure whether it is safe to like himself.

Will he relax his standards too far? Will he become ineffectual if he likes himself? He has achieved so much by chastising himself – by constantly setting the bar higher, by telling himself that nothing is good enough.

Now, he finds himself doing things differently – having unusual thoughts and unusual feelings, and it scares him.

He finds himself thinking that he wants to hold her hand when they are in _Wal-Mart_, but he doesn't. He finds himself wanting to compose music and write poetry about her – because she is a kind of poetry – a kind of music, but he doesn't. He finds himself wanting to talk about her to random people on the street, to tell them boring details: _'my Lee loves to make sandwiches with mayonnaise and Doritos,'_ but he doesn't. He finds himself thinking of names for their lost baby and wanting to replace this lost child – and he wishes to share this with her, but he doesn't.

Every day he thinks about this. He images that if things had been different, the birth would be soon approaching. The news of her miscarriage had awakened something in him. To learn, all at once, that she had been pregnant and that she was no longer, had overwhelmed him. He had been surprised to realise how much the loss had distressed him.

He had never considered himself as a potential father, but for a short time, technically – he had been and the idea of this had evoked all manner of visions and prospects of the future.

Why had he been denied the right to father a child? Bad karma? Fate?

Was this a punishment for the way he had treated Lee? For the way he had treated himself? For the person he is?

He will not share his wish with her because he does not understand this.

The notion terrifies him.

Moreover, his subtle hinting had not been received well by her – he imagines that she too is frightened. Perhaps she is frightened by the risk of losing another child.

Still, he thinks of all of the times he has spilled into her – all of the times she could have conceived, and suddenly he thinks of them as wasted opportunities.

He has several working hypotheses, but he is not certain of why he wants this.

If he _was_ certain of why, he could talk to her, ask her.

_I want a child. Will you have my baby – our baby?_

But the prospect seems ludicrous to him, and so he cannot speak his mind.

_Isn't she the one who is supposed to be feeling this way? The hormones – the biological urge. Isn't she the one who is supposed to be imagining the tiny face with her nose and my eyes? Isn't she the one who is supposed to be wishing for an accident?_

But _he_ feels it – a longing.

He feels a void – it must be filled.

He thinks that if they had a family, there would be a valid reason for them to stay together.

He does not know how to manage this conflict within him.

This commitment that they have made – this decision to be together, this arrangement he had sanctioned when he had retrieved her, has stirred all of these unsettling thoughts and feelings and he she has noticed his reaction. Every now and then, the depression sets in. Every now and then he feels the cold pang of unworthiness – and the emptiness. Every now and then he makes a comment to express this feeling and she sets him firmly back in his place.

One night, following a trivial argument of his instigation, she finds him brooding on the couch.

She settles herself next to him and whispers: 'you know I _absolutely_ adore you right?'

He nods hesitantly and stares at the floor.

'What, you think none of my other boyfriends ever squabbled with me over taking the trash out, or said nasty things occasionally?' she asks, 'I thought that's just what boys do.'

She nudges him, requesting eye contact.

He grants it.

'My love for you,' she says, smiling – hinting that she is half joking to protect herself from the potential corniness, yet steadfast in her conviction, 'is more intense than the heat of the sun, shining down on a Gold Coast beach.'

He grins in response. She parts her fingers through the greying hair at his temples.

'My love for you is deeper than the pacific ocean that separated us when we were apart,' she says, still smiling playfully.

She kisses his forehead.

'My love for you…' she continues, 'is more persistent than Blue's yapping when he wants to be fed.'

He laughs at this comment.

'My love for you is a force more powerful than death,' she says, with a more serious expression.

His smile fades, and his eyes search hers.

He thinks of the night she had found him sprawled on the tiles of his bathroom floor – when death had threatened to separate them, she had stopped it. Death had taken their child – but it had still failed to separate them.

She recognises the sadness in his expression and thinks quickly to change the mood.

'My love for you,' she says, raising her voice several octaves, 'is more colourful and multifaceted than the décor in my old apartment…'

He laughs again and she is relieved – he seems relaxed.

But, she can't shake the feeling that this is the calm before the storm.


	39. XXXIX Plans

XXXIX - Plans

But Love's such a strange situation  
Full of frustration and anger and fear  
Everything's tears  
Nobody hears  
Nobody's here, and nobody hears...

-

I want to sing - Regina Spektor

Some time ago he read an article in a medical journal citing research findings of hormonal changes in expectant fathers. Higher levels of prolactin – a hormone triggering breastfeeding in women and associated with a nurturing instinct, was found in men whose partners were in the third trimester of pregnancy. These men were also found to have higher levels of cortisol - a stress hormone assumed to assist new mothers in responding to the cries of their offspring. He remembers one study very clearly, as he found the methods rather clever: men were required to nurse dolls, whilst listening to a recording of a crying baby – and within thirty minutes, it was found that their testosterone levels had decreased significantly. He knows that decreased testosterone levels are also found in new fathers and the literature assumes that this serves an evolutionary function: decreased levels of testosterone are associated with monogamy – a reduction in the urge to seek out numerous mates and 'spread ones seed,' – assuring that the male partner will stick around and assist in nurturing the offspring. He understands that essentially – these hormonal fluctuations lead to one thing: the urge to 'settle down.'

The nesting instinct.

This information has resurfaced and is currently surging, and whirling through his mind like a sandstorm as he tries to explain his recent unusual behaviour, and intense emotionality.

He is making specific reference to an incident that had occurred only today.

The five-week-old infant daughter of the patient currently under his team's care – had died. Circumstances were such that, regardless of his tirade and threats of additional clinic duties, none of his subordinates were available to perform the autopsy. He had considered sending the body to the morgue for a standard autopsy, but the results would not have been available for twenty-four hours, and given the potentially dire consequences of this delay: the possible death of the mother – his patient, he had no other option then to perform the autopsy himself.

His abject reluctance to perform this task had concerned him greatly.

What had concerned him more though, were the tears he had shed as he had touched the blade of the scalpel to the skin of this tiny lifeless human.

There were only a few tears – possibly three, but it had been enough to blur his vision and impede the task, and each tear had demanded to be acknowledged as it burned its path down his cheek.

Why had his objectivity been impaired? What was the cause of his great sorrow for this death?

These are the questions he poses to himself now.

He has estimated that this week would have marked the birth of their baby.

He wonders if he is experiencing a hormonal reaction to the imaginary birth of a phantom child.

………

He pronounces his arrival home with a slam of the front door.

The impact shakes the very foundations of the building and prompts Lee's emergence from the kitchen.

'Hey hun,' she calls from the doorway, an inquiring tone to her voice.

He grunts in response and discards his effects – keys, helmet, backpack, before shedding his jacket and sinking into the sofa.

She approaches him slowly, watching as he retrieves the television remote from between the cushions.

'I can either make spaghetti bolognaise for dinner _again_ or we can get take out,' she offers – more for the purposes of gauging the intensity of his mood, than a genuine request for his meal preference.

She narrows her eyes, readying herself to decipher his response.

'_Whatever,'_ he spits and she nods to herself, placing his current mood well above five on a one to ten scale.

She sits on the sofa beside him – her eyes tracing his profile because he will not turn to face her.

He is repeatedly and aggressively pointing the remote at the television in a stabbing motion – causing images to flick by rapidly so that the emanating blue light is intermittently cast over their faces.

'Right,' she says, '_mother-fucker_ of a day at work.'

At this, he lowers the remote and turns to face her.

'Talk about it, or not talk about it? I'll be your sounding board if you want, but either way, I don't mind.'

'Not talk about it,' he says.

She nods. 'Ok. Do you want space? I'll leave you alone for a couple of hours, or do you want a distraction: I'll tell you a story.'

He is silent for a moment, watching her.

'Distraction,' he says.

'Are you sure that it is not so serious that my talking about my own day will seem entirely selfish?' she asks.

'No,' he lies, 'go on.'

'Ok,' she responds, before reaching to retrieve a glossy brochure from the coffee table.

'Graham is having an auction at his gallery this weekend,' she continues, 'and he invited me over this afternoon to check out the items that'll be up for sale.'

She hands the brochure to him.

'…and I fell in love with a painting,' she continues, shifting closer to him and turning the pages on the catalogue in his hands, 'I want your opinion – if you like it, maybe we can go on Saturday and see if we can score it.'

'There,' she says, finding the correct page, 'what do you think?'

The picture is only small, and he has difficulty making out the image. It appears to be a night-time street scene – featuring a tree and a lamppost.

'Its…' he says, 'I can't really tell.'

'I know,' she says, 'its way better in reality – you couldn't possibly get the full effect from this photograph.'

'It's about this big,' she says excitedly, drawing a rectangular frame in the air with her fingers, 'the artist has taken mundane subject matter – just a tree and a lamppost and made a really simple image into a beautiful juxtaposition of light and dark…'

She is gesticulating wildly now, and her eyes are sparkling.

'…you get a different impression of the painting each way you look at it,' she gushes, '…when you see it from afar, standing back – it's a very simple but effective image – you can really appreciate the bold contrast of the colours…'

He is smiling as he watches her expression.

'… and then when you get up close – _oh,_ the brush strokes, it's amazing…'

He cannot help but notice how her joy is lightening his mood.

'In this part where the light is cast over the tree,' she says, leaning her elbow on his shoulder and pointing to the catalogue, 'you can make out the details of the leaves, but only enough so that it still fits with the big picture…'

He watches her, awed by her enthusiasm.

'I just love the fact that it's a snapshot of a scene from everyday life,' she continues, 'something that you take for granted – you don't realise the beauty of it until someone paints it and frames it…'

She looks at him and clutches at the sleeve of his shirt.

'I just can't wait for you to see it Greg,' she says.

'Well, I guess I'll see it on Saturday then won't I?' he says, the contagiousness of her spirit evident in the tone of his voice.

………

'I'm a good friend of the owner,' Lee says to the woman collecting tickets at the door.

'Graham,' she adds, when her original statement is received with a blank look.

'Oh,' the woman says finally, 'and what about him?'

She gestures to House.

'Well, he's with me,' Lee replies directly.

House smiles to himself. He likes the sound of this very much.

They are interrupted by a loud exclamation of: 'Lee, _dah-ling!'_

Graham appears, clutching Lee's arms and delivering a wet kiss – aiming for her cheek, but missing and catching her lips.

'If he wasn't so obviously gay, I'd be mad with jealousy right now,' House says.

'Oh, is this your man?' Graham asks, eyeing House.

'Yep,' Lee replies offering a pleased smile.

'He's _delicious_! I just _adore_ the unkempt look. _Loving_ the designer stubble. Is this the doctor, the one who bought your photo?'

She nods.

'Oh,' Graham throws his hands into the air, 'hang onto this one honey!'

'I intend to,' Lee replies.

'So what are you doing out here, fussing with all of this ticket rubbish? Come inside and have some _Moet._'

………

They wait patiently as the first five items are bartered and sold and Lee clutches House's thigh when her painting is announced.

'This piece – the work of emerging artist Ken Kane, was recently awarded a commendation when it was exhibited in a private gallery in New York… bidding will start at five thousand.'

Lee is the first to raise her paddle, but a woman seated beside House, with a dramatic blonde hairstyle, a fox-fur stole draped over her shoulder and a small dog in a basket by her side, raises her paddle immediately.

'Five thousand two hundred,' the auctioneer shouts.

Lee raises her paddle - and the price again, to five thousand four hundred, before two bidders on the opposite side of the room battle to six thousand. The walking, breathing taxidermy museum bids to eight thousand and Lee raises her paddle for eight and a half, before the other woman takes the price to nine thousand and Lee admits defeat, breaking House's heart with her expression of disappointment.

'Nine thousand,' the auctioneer calls, 'do I hear nine thousand two hundred?'

House snatches the paddle from Lee and raises it defiantly.

'Greg!' Lee whispers.

Foxy raises her paddle – and her nose, eyeing House distastefully.

'Nine thousand four hundred.'

From the moment she had described the painting to him – with such joy and enthusiasm, he had decided that she _must_ have it. If worst came to worst, and the painting was sold to another bidder, he would hunt the artist down and commission a replica – no matter what the cost.

House raises his paddle again and Lee attempts to lower his arm.

'Greg,' she whispers, 'it's too much!'

Foxy raises her paddle again.

'Nine thousand six hundred.'

House rolls his eyes. The woman simply will not give up. With another jerk of his elbow, he has the auctioneer calling out: 'nine thousand eight hundred.'

'Greg…' Lee continues to whisper.

'Nine nine,' Foxy calls to the auctioneer before offering House a snide smile.

At this moment he realises that she has likely poisoned her late husband and has an endless supply of money after collecting her portion of the will. He engages his brain and after a spit second of cognizing he has a plan. A quick, covert prod of his cane against her basket startles her Chihuahua, prompting it to escape.

House grins, leans back in his chair and nonchalantly raises his paddle one last time.

'Ten,' he says casually.

Lee giggles quietly to herself as she watches the woman duck her head, searching for her dog.

'Do we have ten thousand two hundred?' the auctioneer requests, searching for foxy amongst the crowd.

The dog is tunneling its way under the chairs now and causing a mild disturbance – the occasional murmur of surprise can be heard, and the animal's travels can be tracked by watching the pattern of bobbing heads.

'Ten thousand two hundred, do I hear ten two for this _extraordinary_ piece by talented, emerging New York artist Ken Kane...?'

House grins in amusement as he watches the woman slide off her chair plopping rather inelegantly onto the floor – grasping blindly for her dog under the row of chairs.

'Ten thousand, going once, going twice…' the auctioneer calls.

'Sold, to the gentleman with the walking cane!'

Lee squeals with excitement, before kissing her darling Greg appreciatively. He grins proudly as her head drops back and she laughs, causing many of the audience members to turn and regard the eccentric couple seated in the back row.

………..

Standing behind her, he swoops to kiss her shoulder, inserting his littlest finger under the strap of her satin slip and toying with it as if he is deciding whether to let it slide down.

'Wear the black dress,' he says.

'Which one?' she asks.

'This one,' he says, and she watches as he hobbles awkwardly towards their wardrobe.

She smiles affectionately, experiencing a surge of emotion upon seeing him purposely seek out the dress and lay it on the bed for her. It excites her to know that he pays enough attention to have a favourite of her dresses, and that he feels compelled to express his preference to her. She stands and strides towards him, throwing her arms around his neck, accosting him with her perfumed embrace and covering his face with kisses. The force of her assault causes him to step back and collide with the bed, so that his knees buckle and he sits abruptly, pulling her into his lap.

'_Make love to me,'_ she whispers, before kissing his mouth resolutely.

'_Ressum ix_,' he mumbles against her lips.

'Huh?' she asks, breaking their kiss.

'Reservation's for six,' he says.

'_Oh,_ just once before we go,' she pleads, crossing her arms in front of her and lifting her slip over her head, exposing her bare breasts to him.

'Mm hmm,' he agrees passively.

He lays back and watches as she crawls over his body wearing nothing but simple white cotton underpants.

'You know, it doesn't have to be just once,' he says, 'we can stay home if you want.'

She places an ardent kiss on his lips.

'Once should tide us over,' she says.

She kisses the bridge of his nose, the tip of his nose and each cheek as her fingers loosen the buttons on his shirt.

'Wilson won't mind if we're a little late,' she says softly, 'let's indulge ourselves, I want to do it slowly.'

………..

He is fascinated by her makeup collection. Tiny pots, jars, tubs, containers, compacts, tubes and vials. Elaborate packaging, a multitude of colours and textures – it resembles an artist's paintbox.

'What's this one do?' he asks, leaning on the sink beside her.

'That one,' she replies, 'is a concealer, it's for blotchy, splotchies.'

'Ah,' he says, squeezing the tube and rubbing the emerging liquid between the pads of his thumb and forefinger, 'but you don't have any blotchy splotchies.'

'I do when it's that time of the month,' she replies, massaging moisturiser into her skin.

She reaches for the small glass bottle of foundation, but he snatches it away before she can grasp it.

'Can I do it?' he asks.

'What?' she says, wide eyed.

'Your make-up.'

'Oh, I don't think so honey,' she replies, giggling.

'I won't make you look like a transvestite,' he says, rolling his eyes.

She considers this rather strange request and decides to acquiesce simply because she appreciates anything atypical.

'Ok,' she says, 'but I'm supervising.'

'Naturally,' he says, 'this is uncharted territory.'

She smiles. 'So you're considering a change of careers – from Gregory House, MD to Gregory House MA – _makeup artiste_.'

'Let's see how I do, huh,' he says, waggling his eyebrows.

'Well, you wanna start with the base,' she gestures to the bottle in his hand, 'I always use my fingers. Just pour a little into your palm and apply carefully – we're aiming for even coverage, not too heavy.'

'Right,' he says, unscrewing the lid.

She watches as his hands slowly approach her face. He starts with a gentle stroke over her cheek and she feels her heart fluttering.

Gentle fingers caressing.

This is remarkably intimate.

He leans in close to inspect his preliminary handiwork and she feels the gentle zephyr of his breath on her face – like a tender whisper of devotion.

He narrows his magnificent eyes and she is thinking that even his eyelashes are beautiful.

She _has to_ kiss him.

'Hey,' he says, grinning, 'artist at work – you're jeopardising the end product.'

'You're a remarkable creature,' she says, kissing him again.

'Do you think we will ever get to the restaurant?' he asks.

………

'This is _so_ Wilson,' he says as they enter the dimly-lit restaurant with its conventional décor: wood panelling and red suede seating.

Lee nods in agreement, searching the room for the man in question.

'Oh my god!' House exclaims suddenly.

'What?' she asks incredulously, following his gaze.

'_Oh my god!'_ he repeats.

'What?'

'My parents are here! That little weasel – I told you he was up to something!'

'Oh,' Lee says, watching Wilson converse with the elderly couple.

'I'll kill him,' House says simply, 'that's it, he's dead.'

'Why is this so bad?' she asks, clutching his forearms.

His expression says: _'you've betrayed me – you're one of them!'_

'I'm not saying it isn't bad,' she says, 'maybe it is, I have no idea, but if it is, you have to prepare me.'

'Oh believe me,' he says, 'it's unequivocally bad.'

'Maybe we should go,' he adds, 'they haven't seen us yet, we could sneak out – stand them up. That'll teach him.'

'It's up to you,' she says, without the slightest hint of impudence, 'we can go if you like, or we can stay for the bare minimum time until we are able to excuse ourselves.'

She finds his hand and tangles her fingers with his – squeezing reassuringly.

He raises his head and contemplatively regards the three figures seated at the table.

'Oh damn,' he says, and she follows his gaze again to see his mother waving, 'she's seen us.'

Wilson and House's father both join his mother in staring expectantly now.

'Ow!' he mumbles sulkily.

Lee giggles at the awkwardness of the situation and leans to rest her forehead on his shoulder in an affectionate gesture of support. All at once, he realises that his parents and his best friend and the waiters, and the bartenders and kitchen staff and the matridee and the other patrons can all see him – Gregory House, standing in the centre of this public place, holding hands with the angel by his side as she leans to him protectively – and suddenly he doesn't care. He doesn't care that everyone has witnessed this blatant display of affection, and he doesn't care that his father is in the room.

He doesn't care, because after he has endured this, they will go home together and they will be alone again – and this is all that matters to him.

She smiles up at him and he feels a surge of confidence.

'C'mon,' he says, smiling faintly.

She nods and allows him to lead as they approach the table.

Wilson and Blythe stand in greeting. His father remains seated.

House clenches his jaw, adding the first stroke to his mental tally.

'Lee,' Blythe exclaims, extending her arms, 'it's _so lovely_ to meet you!'

'Oh,' Lee replies, smiling, 'it's lovely to meet you both too.'

She smiles sweetly at House's father.

'Nice to meet you Lee,' he says, smiling in return across the table.

Amicable conversation ensues, as does dinner and desert. Wilson assumes the role of moderator, ensuring a safe level of small talk, and raising new topics to inject life into the conversation whenever necessary. Blythe prompts, subtly at first, for insights into her son's love life – hoping to hear of definite plans for the future. When she is only provided with morsels, she assumes a bolder position and asks direct questions such as: 'do you two plan to have any children?'

'I…' Lee starts – an apologetic tone to her voice.

She glances at House, who casts his eyes downward.

'Ah, c'mon Blythe,' John interjects, 'you know he's not up to that.'

House drives the point of his butter knife into the table, twisting it slowly and watching the light glinting on the blade, before raising his head and glaring at his father, seething at this malevolent comment. He bites his tongue and stops himself from saying, 'what, and you were?'

The tension is palpable – there is silence around the table. Wilson bites his lip nervously, considering how he shall mend this social dilemma.

Obviously practiced, Blythe excuses herself from the table, saying: 'I'm just going to visit the lady's room.'

Lee discards her napkin on the table and stands, saying: 'I think I will join you.'

For a moment there seems to be a break in the tension, but House's father spoils Wilson's evening once again.

'How old is she?' John asks.

House drops the butter-knife and it clashes loudly with the china plate.

He is eyeing the thick line of the scar on his father's chest - visible above the collar of his shirt.

'Twenty-eight,' he replies, matter-of-factly.

Wilson's eyes dart backwards and forth apprehensively between the two men.

'_Twenty_-eight?' his father repeats, emphasizing the word 'twenty.'

'Yeah, she's _twenty_-eight, dad.'

'Did you knock her up?'

House does not reply to this inquiry.

'Is she pregnant?'

'It's not like that!' House spits.

'Well, I guess I'm just wondering what a pretty young girl like her is doing with someone like _you_.'

House glares at his father again.

'Hope she's not after your money that's all,' John adds, before standing and moving away from the table.

………

In the washroom, Blythe smiles at Lee in the mirror as both women retouch their lipstick - enacting a traditional female bonding ritual.

'Has Greg asked you to marry him?' Blythe asks.

'No,' Lee replies timidly, blushing at the very idea.

'He's stubborn, my boy. Hmm, but you already know that don't you?'

'I do,' Lee nods with a smile.

'I have something for you,' Blythe says.

She sets her handbag on the marble sink and after a moment of rummaging she produces a square of folded pink tissue paper.

'Here,' she says, handing the paper to Lee who narrows her eyes in inquisition.

She unfolds the paper to find a pair of delicate pearl earrings.

'I wore them when I married John,' she says, 'I'd like it if you wore them on your wedding day too.'

When Lee raises her head to meet Blythe's gaze, both women have tear filled eyes.

'I knew….when I saw you two together, I knew that my son was in love,' Blythe says.

The tears journey over Lee's cheeks now.

Blythe steps forward and takes the young woman into her embrace.

………

'You're dead,' House says when Wilson enters his office on Monday morning, 'I haven't decided how you shall meet your fate, right now I'm considering something slow and painful.'

'Look,' Wilson says, 'I just think that Lee is really good for you, and I…'

'What? You wanted to tattle tale, appeal to my parents _– tell Greg that he has to stick with Lee or he's grounded?_ Sorry, I'm in my forties dude – I don't know what sort of screwed up relationship you have with your parents, but for me, it doesn't work like that anymore.'

'You met her parents, I just thought she might like to meet yours – that's all,' Wilson says.

'Yeah, well I think she was perfectly satisfied with just knowing me – it wasn't really necessary for her to meet ma and pa House. She doesn't care if I grew up in a trailer park, or if my parents are part of a weird religious sect, she'll…'

He censors himself abruptly.

'She'll love you just the same anyway?' Wilson suggests.

'Why do you have to meddle?' House demands, changing the subject, 'we can handle it.'

'Good to hear,' Wilson says, 'and anyway, we all survived, no blood was drawn.'

'Ah, were you at the same table? Did you not hear my father accuse Lee of gold digging? And what was with that comment he made about children: _you know he's not up to that_.'

Wilson's eyes widen. 'You can't tell me you were offended by that comment. It's entirely true!'

'What? why? Lee _was_ pregnant…I _was_ going to be a father you know…'

'I know, and frankly, the mere prospect made me want to call child services!'

'How hard can it be?'

'Well, for a start, it helps to be emotionally available… do you think you can tick that box? Think off everything you had to go through before you could admit that you are in love with Lee. Can't you just face the fact that your dad might be right about you?'

House clenches his jaw. These are damaging words.

………

In the afternoon, they receive a delivery.

'Our baby's here Greg,' Lee announces happily.

And unexpectedly, yet significantly, these words affect him.

First a racing heart and then the sensation of pins and needles.

Shock.

'What?!' he demands.

Only later will he realise that at this moment, he had envisaged her crossing the threshold of their home, nursing their newborn baby in her arms.

'…our…painting,' she answers hesitantly, considering his reaction and wondering how her comment could possibly be construed as offensive.

His attention is caught by a delivery man entering the room with a large square object adorned in bubble-wrap.

'Oh _for god's sake_ Lee, it's just a damn painting!' he spits.

Her facial features contort into an expression of absolute devastation.

This is the expression that impales his already pained heart with a thousand tiny daggers. This is the expression he knows all too well.

He believes that he deserves to be strung up and beaten or thrown to the mercy of wild beasts for this atrocity, but her expression is a type of punishment well beyond these means.

The hurt in her eyes, the slouch of her brow, the way her lips fall open slightly, as if she intends to speak, or cry.

He believes that this precious face should never be tainted and spoiled by such an expression.

'Ah,' the delivery man speaks, making his presence in this staid atmosphere known, 'where did you want this?'

House watches as the man flashes Lee a sympathetic expression – the sort of expression that pretty young things tend to invite from men, if they are judged to be in need of compassion. The sort of expression that says: _what is a sweet girl like you, doing with a callous old man like him?_

'Just there will do fine,' Lee responds, putting on her stable, practical voice.

When the man leaves, House remains in his position on the couch: his knees apart, his fingers tracing the shape of the handle of his cane, his head hung in shame.

She enters the kitchen and he wonders how long she will not talk to him.

His relationship with Stacy was the only prior relationship that had even approached this level of intimacy and functionality and so it is his first point of reference whenever he is unable to estimate Lee's next move.

For this type of offence, Stacy would have him on prohibition for a good three hours.

He waits, listening for the clanging and banging sounds of pots and pans being used as an outlet of tension.

He hears no such sounds, instead she emerges immediately – approaching him, the hope for peace evident in her demeanour, and at this, he realises that he cannot use his relationship with Stacy as a point of comparison.

She stops and gently places his bottle of Vicodin on the coffee table within his reach. It is only now that he realises that he is due for another dose – the dull throb of his thigh suddenly surfacing in his consciousness.

He smiles faintly, silently offering his gratitude and requesting forgiveness.

She understands this immediately – this is his way.

'I know you've been stressed lately,' she says quietly, stroking his cheek.

He takes her hand and kisses her palm.

'Where should we hang it?' he asks, nodding to the painting.

She smiles and thinks for a moment.

'In the office? Above the low bookshelf?'

'Perfect,' he says.

………

He cannot sleep.

He hears her voice again and again.

'_Our baby's here Greg.'_

Each time he closes his eyes he sees her holding the child.

He turns on his side and watches her sleeping.

He wishes to tell her, but he cannot bring himself to do this.

He does not want to hear her incredulous reaction, her disbelief.

'_What? You want what?'_

He doesn't want to be laid flat on the chopping board to be tenderised by her mallet of joyous inquisition.

Bottom line: he doesn't want to be vulnerable.

It is far more simple – more comfortable, to rehearse a reaction of pleasant acceptance to the announcement of a missed period and morning sickness, than it is to rehearse a heart wrenching, soul exposing confession.

And so, like the slinking coward he considers himself to be, he rises from bed, enters the bathroom, closes the door, and searches though the draw for her toiletries.

He has a plan to alleviate the confusion.

He sees the plan as viable solution, although it is greatly disturbing.

The plan is more disturbing than the idea that had triggered it.

He stares down at the article in his hand and he realises that he will have to wait to act on this plan.

He has to wait because she has a bulk supply of the prescription birth control pills she had acquired in Australia and the packaging is of a different design. The packaging has a tamper proof foil cover. When she purchases her next course of pills from the chemist, the packaging will be a plastic wheel – a more workable design.

He tells himself that he is doing this for their sake.

He is replacing their baby.

* * *

Ken Kane isn't a real artist - I just made him up...

Again, thanks to everyone who is still reading and reviewing - and a special thanks to newcomer Houseketeer (you rock!)

I've been meaning to thank all of my regular reviewers and will find some way of doing so in my next chap... but now I will have to settle for a more general thankyou...


	40. XL Storm

We have reached forty chapters! (Strange, uncommonly seen Roman numerials)

* * *

XL – Storm

When he arrives home from work, he is horrified to find her in the kitchen with a glass of merlot in her hand.

She twists her wrist and the deep red liquid swills around the bowl of the glass.

Though he hasn't confirmed her status, he knows the effects of alcohol are most devastating in the earliest stages of pregnancy and assuming it is not worth the risk, he snatches the glass from her immediately, splashing its contents into the sink.

'Wha…?' she starts, her mouth opening in shock.

He closes his mouth over hers, kissing her in an attempt to distract her from his action.

'Greg…' she says questioningly, breaking the kiss.

He is clawing at the buttons on her blouse now and leaving rough, wet kisses over her neck.

'Let's have sex,' he demands, 'now.'

………

He strips his clothing quickly as he stands by the bed.

He watches her, sitting on the bed and she senses that he is urging her to do the same. She considers the distinct lack of intimacy in this encounter – the distance between them.

She loosens the remainder of the buttons on her blouse before shrugging it off. She unzips her skirt and stands to step out of it at the floor.

He is lying on the bed now and he watches as she reaches behind to unclasp her bra before rolling each of her stockings down and removing her panties.

She can tell, by regarding his expression – the glint in his eyes, that he is aroused by the sight of her undressing, but she is curiously concerned as to why he did not prefer to do it himself – as he usually does.

She lies down beside him and reaches out to touch him. His arms meet with hers, but his embrace is mechanical.

She has noticed a change in the way he makes love to her. In fact, it seems as though he is not making _love_ to her at all – he simply needs to get off.

He has been selfish in bed, inattentive and distant.

This is not like him.

She suspects something.

She cradles his head and urges him to look at her – desperately hoping for a connection. She attempts to kiss him but he turns his head and she feels her heart compress.

She feels him slipping.

Now, he touches her, his fingers exploring and teasing – as gentle and light as a feather. She is arching off the bed, and writhing in his arms at the pleasure.

This is usual.

It is obvious that he is not enjoying this. He will not look into her eyes, but she can see the sadness in his – the detachment, as he stares at the inanimate objects around the room.

His gaze is currently fixed on the bureau.

This is not usual.

She guesses that he touches her like this only for the utility – so that he is able to enter her more easily.

He moves above her now, his weight pressing down on her – crushing her chest, sweating – his skin adhering to hers, grunting and thrusting hard until he comes.

She is preparing to encircle him with her arms, but he rolls off of her and turns away.

She turns with him and holds him anyway, kissing his bare shoulder.

He is tormented by guilt – by the thought that he is betraying her trust, violating her, deceiving and manipulating her.

He is a coward.

He feels as if he doesn't deserve to touch her, he doesn't deserve to make love to her, he doesn't deserve her affection, but sex is a necessary part of his plan – and so he continues to initiate these banal, laborious, unfulfilling encounters. He realises that she has noticed the change in him, but he cannot act as if it hasn't changed him, because it makes him sick to the stomach.

He pretends to sleep.

She pretends not to cry.

………

She called him 'baby' yesterday, at the cafeteria.

'Want anything?' he had asked.

'Vanilla Coke please baby,' she had replied.

He had cringed.

Sometimes, she calls the dog 'baby.'

This pisses him off.

'He's a just a dog, and he stinks.'

'Oh, no! He's our baby, and he loves you – unconditionally.'

_He's our baby._

The words burn his ears.

_No,_ he thinks, _our baby is dead._

He has seen her working with children. He thinks she would make a good mother. A natural. She sits on the floor with them, a lollipop in her mouth, playing cards to facilitate their interaction – to convince them to open up to her – and they do. In fact, he witnessed one child's performance of a screaming tantrum upon learning that his sessions with Lee had come to an end. The child's mother had stood by helplessly, an expression of sheer horror and embarrassment on her face, but Lee had calmly knelt before the child, smiled and whispered soothing words in her way, and the child had nodded, snorted back his tears and mucus and left quietly, holding his mother's hand – turning back only once to wave goodbye.

He had been greatly impressed. He admired this quality of hers – her gentleness. There is nothing pretentious about her, she is not excessively sweet, only genuinely so. He knows that most people would consider her a good candidate for a mother, although she – herself would not.

'You're good with kids,' he had said to her on this day.

'Only because I know they will be leaving with their mother,' she had replied with a wink.

He doubts this.

He knows that when _their_ child arrives, she will be overwhelmed with the love she feels for their tiny creation.

He knows that while most people would consider her as a good candidate for a mother, most people would consider him a _bad_ candidate for a father.

_Most people_.

He'll be damned if he will let _anyone_ tell him that he wouldn't be a decent father, that he can't and shouldn't be any type of father. Not Wilson, and especially not his own father. He knows they would all presume that he wouldn't care for a child - that he couldn't.

He will prove them wrong.

………

Another weekday afternoon.

He finds her curled up in the centre of their grand bed. Her petite body creates the impression that the bed is much larger than it really is. It is only 5pm. This is very unusual. Uncharacteristic. His heart begins pounding in his chest with the fear that he may be responsible for this.

Has he been caught?

He dreads the impending conversation because of his perceived ineptness.

'Hey,' he says softly, sitting beside her and stroking her back, 'what's this about?'

'Nothing,' she says without turning to face him.

His jaw clenches and he feels desperately worried, taking her response as evidence that he is culpable.

'Did I do something?' he asks, cringing – rolling his eyes to the ceiling.

At this, she turns instantly on the bed, touching his knee. This is the most attentive he has been in weeks, and she resolves to take advantage.

'Oh, no,' she says quickly, 'sorry… no, you didn't do anything. My day has been an absolute nightmare! Everything that could possibly go wrong, went wrong, and now I'm really sick. I've been vomiting all afternoon.'

This news sparks an excitement within him.

'Well do you think you could be pregnant?'

His words collide as they rush from his mouth.

'No,' she says, 'on the contrary, I got my period today – well isn't _that_ the cherry on top of the cake.'

'And it's the strangest thing,' she continues, 'I was meaning to skip it this week, so I didn't take the sugar pills, I just went onto the active pills for the next month, but I got it anyway. Why do you think that happened – I mean, I've only been sick today, so the vomiting virus can't be to blame.'

It is because she is not talking _any_ active pills, and so she is on her natural cycle. He hadn't expected this small hitch. He hadn't expected for her to try and skip a period.

'You may need a different prescription,' he says.

He immediately regrets this response.

What if she contacts her GP and receives a higher dose pill? He may have to start all over again, and soon, she will become suspicious.

'And it's probably best not to skip them if you can avoid it – you might get spotting. I can get you a stronger prescription from the chemist at the hospital if you like,' he says.

The words slip easily from his mouth - though he hasn't authorised them to do so. He is possessed.

'Ok,' she agrees, 'thank you darling.'

He realises that this will afford him more control - it is rather convenient and a part of him is satisfied. Another part of him is _disgusted_. This is what shows on his face.

'Don't worry,' she says, reading his expression of distress, 'I was just having a bit of a sook. I'm over it already.'

He pulls her close and rests his chin on her shoulder.

'You're trying to trick me,' she says, and his body seizes with shock.

For a moment he thinks that he _has_ been caught, until he notices her smile.

'You're a liar,' she continues, 'you said you were no good at this comforting thing.'

He is holding her and she is elated.

'I feel one hundred times better just because you're home now.'

'But I don't ever know the right thing to say,' he says quietly in his low voice.

'You don't have to say anything,' she says, 'what you're doing now is perfect.'

………

Against her will, she is sharing lunch with the paediatrician in a coffee shop.

In _their_ coffee shop.

This meeting had been arranged on the premise that they discuss a referral case – he has suggested therapy for a young patient suffering from severe anxiety.

She had suggested they meet in her office, but he had insisted on this location.

The conversation is tangential. There have been several inappropriate questions, he continues to guide the conversation off track, and she continues to guide it back.

'What sorts of things do you like to do in your spare time?' he asks, tilting his head and staring at her with keen interest.

'My _partner_ and I,' she begins, emphasising the word partner. She has done this repeatedly, however the point does not seem to have been taken. '…like to visit galleries and go to concerts,' she continues, before adding, 'does the biological father have visitation rights?'

'Concerts?' he says, 'what sort of music do you like?'

'Dr Jensen, I only have another fifteen minutes before I have to be back at the hospital for an appointment, I'd appreciate it if you could outline the pertinent…'

'Call me Dean,' he interjects.

She pauses, exasperated, attempting to maintain her cool, preparing her response. She takes a deep breath and opens her mouth to speak, but is halted by a loud tapping sound on the glass window-front of the café.

House.

Her natural response is to smile. She offers him a wave and he raises a brow and cocks his head back in a 'come here' gesture.

She excuses herself from the table and joins him on the street, shading her eyes from the sun with her hand.

'Hey,' she says.

'Hey,' he replies, 'whatcha doin?'

'Meeting,' she says, pointing her thumb at Dr Jensen, 'I'm gonna cut it short though, the guy's a wanker. I can't get anything useful out of him. What are you doing?'

'Came to get coffee,' he replies, 'best in town.'

'I know,' she agrees.

'Great place to pick up too,' she adds with a smile, 'I had the best sex with a guy after sharing coffee here once.'

He doesn't seem to notice this because he is staring at Jensen.

'Have you seen the keys to the Vette?' he asks rather harshly, his eyes flicking back to her.

'No, I haven't used it since Sunday,' she replies, 'and you drove it last.'

'Yeah, and I had to search a good hour for the keys before I found them that time,' he spits, 'can't you just put them back in their place – on the damn side table?'

'Sorry,' she says meekly, her eyes wide with surprise.

He regards her for a moment, his brow furrowed in anger, before he turns from her and enters the café.

She follows him to retrieve her handbag and end her meeting with Jensen.

She searches the tables for him.

He sits alone in a corner, his back turned to her, rounded, hunched shoulders, fingers fiddling with the sugar dispenser.

No farewell.

………

'Did you find the keys to the Vette?' she asks, when she arrives home.

He is rearranging books on a shelf. He nods once, without turning to looking at her.

She sits on the couch and watches him sort the books, trying to understand his coding system. Is he sorting by size? Colour? Topic? Alphabetical order?

'He's the guy who was feeling you up at that hospital party, right?' he asks quietly, sliding one of her _Man Ray_ books into place.

'What?'

'The paediatrician.'

Mark Rothko is next. She realises he is sorting by topic _and_ alphabetical order.

She is remembering the night when he was blind drunk – slurring his words: _'Get your hands off of her.'_

'Yeah,' she admits.

'Why were you having lunch with him?'

'I had to, I've just taken on one of his patients and we were discussing the case.'

'Over lunch? What's wrong with your office at the hospital?'

'Greg,' she says, 'people have lunch meetings all the time – it was just convenient that's all. It was his idea… I tried to keep it at the hospital, but he insisted and I just wanted it over and done with.'

'You know how I feel about that guy!' he shouts suddenly, fixing her in place with his vexatious glare.

'No, not really darling,' she says, 'because you haven't told me.'

'Oh, don't start on that: you need to talk to me, _bullshit!_' he shouts, dropping two large hardback cover books to land with a _thud _on the wood floor, 'and don't call me darling while we're fighting!'

She stands slowly and takes one step towards him - but he freezes her with his glare.

Friends would shake their heads disapprovingly. _Look what a mess she has gotten herself into – involving herself with an older man – a physically and emotionally crippled wreck of a man._

But she stands – resolute, her commitment unwavering.

He moves to stand in front of the fireplace.

'Greg,' she says, imploring, 'don't you trust me? Don't you realise that compared to you, everyone else in this world _bores_ me? Do you honestly think I would _cheat_ on you?'

He is silent. He turns from her, leaning on the mantle piece above the fireplace.

'What evidence do you have to suggest tha…?'

'DON'T start that CBT crap with me!' he shouts, swiping his arm over the mantle piece, knocking the various ornaments to the ground with a resounding, thunderous clatter.

The sound echoes in the small lounge area of their townhouse and startles the dog – who has sought refuge under the sofa.

The mound of rubble - smashed trinkets and precious belongings, is an ominous symbol of what he is risking.

Her hand moves to cover her mouth. She is trembling as she watches him transform before her very eyes.

This is not right. This is _not_ like him. She suspects that this has nothing to do with car keys or her lunch date with another man. There is a much deeper issue.

'What's this about?' she says gently.

He will not turn to face her.

'I don't think this is about him,' she says, 'Greg, you've been different lately, you won't talk to me. And I don't mean deep and meaningful conversation talk, I mean you won't even talk to me about normal things – about your day, about stupid things… you won't laugh with me, you won't touch me…'

She chokes on these last few words.

He knows it is the guilt. It is the confusion – anger is its manifestation.

He sits at the piano. She moves to stand beside him and touches his shoulder and he shrugs her hand away.

She shuts herself away in the bathroom and cries.

He plays a loud, violent piece. Rachmaninoff.

His anger builds with the volume. He does not feel the cathartic effects of the music until he has played the piece twice - in full.

He throws the door open to find her seated in the empty bathtub, her knees under her chin, sobbing. Her arms hold her legs tightly to her chest. In this moment, she is so small and pathetic and frightened.

She looks at him. Red, wet eyes. Swollen, sticky, cheeks. Moist, mattered hair. Bulging temporal veins.

This image causes a sharp pain in his chest.

_See what you've done to her._

'Greg…' she says.

He discards his cane, strides forth and grips her arms tightly, pulling her to stand up.

Her huge, sad eyes dart backwards and forth, scanning his features.

Her long lashes, clumped together with tears are like star shaped frames for her eyes.

'I love you,' she says, before her voice breaks and she cries again.

'_Please_, please don't push me away,' she sobs.

He holds her tightly – his fingers dig into her flesh. It is as if he is afraid that she might dissolve, that some higher power will take her from him, because he has violated her, because they have been mismatched - he does not deserve her.

He kisses her hard on the mouth. This is his way of returning the sentiment – of apologising.

Her arms fold around his neck and she rejoices at this.

With surprisingly little difficulty, he steps over the ledge of the bathtub, squats, and pulls her body into his lap.

He continues to kiss her quickly, frantically, and in contrast with his haste and force, her hands gently caress his face as if his skin were fragile silk, when in actuality, her palms scrape over the abrasive surface of his bristled cheek.

His hands move between their bodies. He unbuckles his belt and opens the zipper of his jeans because he has to have her now.

He is swollen to full size – desperate for release.

His long limbs are compressed within the porcelain confines of the bathtub and so with much difficulty, he positions her exhausted, malleable body to sit between his thighs and he bunches her skirt around her waist.

There is no time to remove her underwear and so he pushes the fabric of her cotton panties aside enough to enter her.

She cries out.

He will not look at her because he is ashamed. Ashamed that she thinks he is worthy of her, ashamed that he needs this fuck to feel better.

But she places her clammy hands on his cheeks _insisting _that he look at her, and she moves on him because she knows it is what he needs.

'_I love you,'_ he chokes as he comes.

He can visualise it – the fluid being expelled, and it is a calming release of tension.

He is wishing – _wishing_ that this time it will happen, this time she will conceive, so that it might end the turmoil. The guilt, the frustration, the confusion, the anger in his mind. If it happens, it happens and he will be free from analysing it, justifying it, considering it – turning it over and over in his mind. If it happens, he will no longer need to act out – to attack her as a method of soothing his anger for not understanding himself. She will be pregnant, and all that will matter then is that very fact, and the planning for the future.

They remain in the bathtub together long after.

'Did I frighten you?' he asks.

'I didn't fear for my safety, if that's what you mean. I know you'd never hurt me.'

'But I do hurt you, almost everyday.'

'No,' she insists, 'not every day. And you make me happy, so much more so than you could ever hurt me.'

He has no response for this.

'I'll tell you exactly why our arguing upset me,' she says.

'Because I'm horrible to you,' he says, 'I won't talk to you, I say awful things.'

'No,' she says, 'sometimes you do make me _so sad_, but it only really upsets me because it feels like a threat to us – when we fight I worry that you'll try to push me away again. I worry that my biggest fear will become a reality – I worry that we won't be together for the rest of our lives. That's what frightens me.'

'I can only tell you that I honestly never regret this – us,' she continues, 'even when you yell and shout at me, even when you won't talk to me, I love you just as much, and I know you love me. I don't doubt it for one second.'

He touches his lips to her temple, splays a hand on her lower belly and he wonders if their child is already forming, because this will be sure to keep them together forever. This is a guarantee. A biding clause.

* * *

In honor of Homeostasis' 40th anniversary, I wanted to thank all of the people who have stuck with it/given it a try:

First I would like to thank my most loyal readers/reviewers: Samanthaon, Houseketeer, ScarlettScribble, Elbereth Gilthoniel,

But I don't mean to discriminate – I truly appreciate _every one_ of your reviews – your feedback and comments.

So thanks also to rara8777, manda, nanashi-reikon, jane, Cyn, hipplanet, bmax, Oktober Black and AgntJello: your comments are lovely.

Welcome to (relatively) newcomers Karin and Rain

Thank you also: Surferosa, ranger, gh2005, huzerchik, Tobylove, magenta, trevor19, Faith5x5, Meg, wynntay, Zanthia23, Stripy sox roc, bj, texphile, 88nomdeplume88, brynnamorgan, Roo88, Pippabelle, Tidwell, Izzfrogger, and The Future Queen of the Word.

And a special thanks to tomsgirl79, who submitted the first review for Homeostasis! (and what a wonderful first review that was – this was when I first realized what a rush it was to read reviews).

I hope to god I haven't missed anyone!

Really – my most genuine thanks to all of you – because there is no point in posting if no one is going to read/review, one may as well read their work to themselves!


	41. XLI Bind

**The previous chapter of Homeostasis got a record number of reviews - 15! I am so stoked! So I wanted to thank you all individually (P.S. I stole this format from Scarlett Scribble) in order of review - no favouritism... (winks at Houseketeer).**

**Stripy sox roc** - what's going to happen when she finds out? Hmmm, scroll down and see... Thanks for reading and reviewing.

**Surferosa -** Thanks for your lovely long review - I'm glad you enjoyed this chap, and House's characterisation. Thanks also for the virtual applause! "Thank you for mentioning me, You are just too sweet." - you're welcome, and beause I love your sweet reviews - I'm mentioning you again!

**ScarlettScribble **- Ah, one of Homeostasis' loyal readers - can't thank you enough for sticking with it. Thanks also for the inspiration for this format. You're a fab writer (and the latest chap of 'star' is next on my list!)

**Meg** - I'm so glad you're a House/Lee shipper. Thanks for your lovely, heartfelt anniversary blessing!

**Houseketeer** - My bestest net buddy. Gold standard reviewer. You should give lessons - seriously, you know I'm addicted to your comments (not to mention the smile on my face when I see the 'online' symbol on MSN)

**nanashi-reikon** - I don't know much about you, only though your reviews and PM's but I can just tell that you're cool. You always have interesting questions for me. I'm intrigued. You've been reading this one from the very beginning, one of the first reviewers - so THANKS. Oh, and I am on the trail of 'Eleven Minutes.'

**Elbereth Gilthoniel** - another dedicated Homeostasis reviewer! I'm so glad you found my story. I always feel like I can't post another chap until I have seen your review - cos you review so consistently that its just the way things go. Thanks for your loyalty!

**MumsTheWord** - a newcomer? If so, welcome. I hope I haven't missed you out in any previous thanks. If I have, here is a big one to make up for it: THANKS

**huzerchik** - I _am _still very interested in the story (a few more adventures for House and Lee to come yet) and I am so very thankful that you are too! Glad you're always looking out for new chaps (sorry this one took a while - I blame FF's ill health)

**rara8777** - another intriguing reviewer. I really appreciate your insightful comments and suggestions. Thanks so much for the help on the altered chap 38! I think it really made a difference to the flow of the story. I really respect your opinion.

**manda** - aw, your reviews _always_ make me smile. You often say that my updates make your day. Well your reviews make _my_ day. Thanks so much for consistently reading and reviewing.

**hipplanet** - another regular. You're very welcome for the shout-out, its the least I could do for your reviews - in fact, here is another one: thanks!

**Abby **- so glad you found the story, and that you're enjoying the read. 'Please update soon,' - well, since you asked so nicely... (sorry about falling down on the 'soon' part though)

**Karin** - Thanks for the anniversary blessing. I can promise you that things _will_ start looking up for Lee soon.

**Rain **- you always have beautiful things to say - you have a poetic way with words. "We just need to make the jump, right?" - I think so, if it feels right, you just got to stick with it and give it your best shot. Thank you for your lovely reviews.

* * *

XLI - Bind

Love is a dangerous pastime  
Caught between madness and gladness of flight  
Nothing is wrong and nothing is right  
Falling asleep in your arms every night  
-

I want to sing - Regina Spektor

He assumes that the first time around, she must have forgotten to take one of her pills and she had fallen pregnant instantly.

_Then damn it, why is it taking so long this time around?_

Any day, he expects her to share her suspicions with him. Any day now, he expects to hear her announcement. He assumes she will be overjoyed. And he will stop feeling guilty.

He knows his behaviour is highly suspicious, but his paranoia negates any self consciousness or any compassion for her.

He checks the packaging regularly to be sure that she is still taking the useless pills – that she is still oblivious.

He steals saliva samples, monitors her hormone levels, demands regular sex, and then casts her aside like a crumpled candy wrapper, as if he has consumed the best part and has no further use for her.

He knows she only continues to acquiesce because she is desperate for any semblance of affection.

………

The days lag on and no news is _bad_ news.

She takes the dog for a walk and finds him in the kitchen when she returns.

The room smells like burnt bread and fresh coffee.

They don't talk to each other over breakfast. They don't talk at all.

The crunch of his marmalade toast is deafening.

Still, she sits on the chair opposite him.

Baffling. Why does she stay? _Why?_

She has stamina, he has to give her that, but he knows the moment of truth is on the horizon.

The decider.

Pregnancy, or split? Whichever happens first. Maybe they will happen simultaneously.

She yawns and blinks repeatedly. She has been awake since daybreak – hunched over the luminous screen of her laptop.

She works when she is depressed – a pitiful attempt at self distraction.

She folds her legs in front of her now, arranging her feet in her lap, tracing her finger over the star on her dirty white Converse High Tops.

She retrieves a pen from her hair – she often keeps one tucked behind the elastic band when she is working.

She begins drawing on the soiled canvas of her shoes – adding ink to the mess of mud and grass stains.

A picture of a dog. Their pet.

She is working on the whiskers when she arches her eyebrow and looks up at him for a moment. He wonders what she is thinking of him. She takes the bottle of half empty, tepid, de-carbonated Coke – set aside for disposal on the table, unscrews the cap, and swigs from the bottle.

A bad habit they both share.

He has to smile.

She catches him and smiles in return.

He remembers why she stays.

_I love you._

………

It happens on Saturday, just after noon.

She emerges from the bathroom, wearing a tight, ribbed singlet, no bra, and grey track pants – the legs of which are too long – the extra material scuffs along the floor as she walks making a soft _'clop,'_ noise, and her feet are hidden so that only her perfectly manicured red toenails peer out from underneath.

She pauses.

He feels her staring. He hasn't seen her expression yet. He hasn't seen what she holds in her hands, but already he knows.

_You're lucky you got away with it for this long, bastard._

The room is like a vacuum. Cold. Empty.

He turns, regarding her from his position on the couch.

Her eyes are welling with tears already.

She is pale. Paler than usual.

'Greg…' she says quietly.

His heart is pounding inside his chest – giving him the beating he deserves.

She holds the plastic wheel out for him to see.

She is trembling – her hand shakes, and he can almost hear the little pills rattling in their case.

'Have you been…tampering with these?' she asks, with of a hint of hope – of disbelief.

_Please tell me I'm seriously mistaken._

He can't even give her the courtesy of a candid confession.

He stares surreptitiously at the floor.

Canned laughter bursts jovially from the television, mocking them.

'What did you do?!' she demands.

Still staring at the floor, he quietly says: 'I replaced the active pills with placebo sugar pills.'

'What?!' she says, because she can't hear his voice for the television.

'I fucked you over Lee!' he shouts at her, 'I replaced the active pills with placebo sugar pills!'

She opens her mouth and attempts to speak, but the mixture of shock and anger prevents her from finding the right words – from finding any words.

She simply strides past him and disappears behind the bookcase, down the hall.

A moment later she emerges from the bedroom with one of her largest handbags – sleeves and legs of clothing spewing from its mouth.

She is crying hysterically now, sniffing and swiping at her eyes with the back of her hand.

She rushes past him, sending a gust of torrid air over him – the equivalent of a hard slap in the face.

She will not look at him.

She breaks into a run now – as if she can't get away from him fast enough.

She snatches his car keys from the side table by the front door and leaves.

There is no slam. She hadn't even bothered to shut the door.

It creaks on its hinges eerily, like a sound effect from a bad B-grade slasher movie.

Slowly, painfully, as if he is a solider on a battlefield – a traitor: ambushed by his own battalion, he hobbles to the door.

He slams it on her behalf.

……….

There is a knock.

For the briefest moment, he feels a twang of hope – thinking she has returned.

_She has keys, she wouldn't knock._

He moves to the door as quickly as his leg will allow him to, reassuring himself that she may have forgotten her keys in her haste to leave.

The image through the peep hole is a great disappointment though.

Wilson.

'What?!' House demands, opening the door only a fraction.

'I was just dropping in for a visit,' Wilson says.

'Bad time.'

'Why? What's going on?'

'Don't want to talk about it.'

Wilson peers into the lounge area.

'Where's Lee?' he asks.

'Out.'

'Oh, where?'

'Don't know.'

'Don't know?'

'Yeah. Don't know. What, you think I keep a tracking device on her?'

'Did you guys have a fight?'

House clenches his jaw. Wilson forces his way past him and enters the room.

'Said I don't want to talk about it!' House spits.

'How long ago did she leave?' Wilson asks, disregarding House's resistance.

'Oh yeah, that's right, you're a pro at mending domestic disputes,' House says, 'you've had plenty of practice. Gonna give me an earful of advice?'

'Whatever has happened, I'll bet it's your fault,' Wilson says.

House admits his guilt by remaining silent.

'How long ago did she leave?' Wilson repeats.

'A few hours ago.'

'A few. How many is a few?'

'Six.'

'_Six?_ Man, that's bad.'

House cringes.

'Two is a small quarrel over something trivial – toilet seat, dishes,' Wilson says, 'four is something a little more serious – caught staring at another woman's ass, forgetting anniversaries. But six – six is right up there, six is drunken flirting with nurses at hospital events and coming home in the _really_ early hours of the morning smelling like _Romance by Ralph Lauren_.'

House raises a brow considering the fact that he has just been offered a great insight into his friend's tumultuous love affairs.

'I have a feeling we're not talking about me anymore…' House says, 'which is great!'

'But she's still not back _yet_,' Wilson continues and House rolls his eyes, 'we have six hours _and counting._ That's _not good._'

'What happens after six?' House asks, reluctantly.

'Eight hours is workable,' Wilson says, 'sixteen is still safe but tentative, and twenty-four…'

'Twenty-four?'

'Twenty-four is a separation. Forty-eight is an impasse.'

House stares at the rug.

'But when we're talking big numbers – we're talking big crimes,' Wilson says, eyeing House suspiciously. 'Infidelity.'

'Ah, have you _met_ my girlfriend?' House says, 'we're talking about Lee: clearly, this has _nothing_ to do with another woman.'

'No late nights working back at the hospital with Cameron?'

'No!'

'Then what on earth did you do?'

Wilson does not receive a response, and so he continues.

'What did she do?'

'Huh?'

'How did she react to… whatever it was you did?'

'She left, duh!'

'Yeah, but what did she do _before_ she left?'

House stares blankly.

'PSS,' Wilson says.

'What?'

'PSS,' Wilson repeats, 'Pout, shout, shut up.'

House contorts his facial features into a pained expression, massaging his temple with the fingers of one hand and gripping his cane with the others.

'They pout around if its only a minor offence…' Wilson says, 'they shout when...'

'Yeah I get it!' House snaps, 'silence is the worst.'

Wilson's eyes widen. 'She didn't say anything, did she?'

'Oh man, silence, _and_ six hours….' Wilson continues, 'that's not a good combination.'

'We'll be fine,' House says, deflecting Wilson's inquisition, 'she'll be back any minute now – and I don't want you to be here when she returns.'

'You don't want a drinking buddy to wait it out with?' Wilson says.

House shakes his head.

'Alright,' Wilson says, moving to the door, 'but when she does come back – you beg for forgiveness. Everything that she said is right, everything that you said is wrong. I know that'll be hard for you House, but you have to remember that this woman is the most important thing in your life – everything else pales into insignificance, _including_ your ego.'

Suddenly the prospect of the confrontation with Lee is very real and frightening.

'I'll get the beer,' House says.

Wilson smiles to himself before turning back to House.

'But no more questions,' House adds.

………

'You're tryina gemme drunk so I'll tell you everythin,' House slurs.

'It's got nothing to do with me trying,' Wilson replies, regarding his friend who is currently waving an empty glass in his face, melted ice sliding around in the dregs of expensive scotch whiskey, 'you're doing a great job of that yourself.'

'Hmph,' House grunts, before waving the glass again.

'More!' he demands, slamming the glass on the coffee table, narrowly missing the edge.

'I think you've had enough,' Wilson replies.

'Fuckya then,' House says defiantly, raising his body off the couch, swaying unsteadily on his feet.

'Y…you should really sit down,' Wilson says, standing and offering his arm to his unbalanced friend.

House rejects this offer with an imprecise slap before making his way, rather awkwardly to the kitchen mumbling: 'Gemme self summore scotchenbeer.'

'Well at least tomorrow is Sunday,' Wilson sighs as he watches his friend return with three bottles of beer and a new bottle of scotch.

'Here,' House says, shoving a beer against Wilson's chest, 'you call yourself a drinkin buddy? You loser, I could drink ya under th table.'

'Yeah, well that's where you'll be very soon if you keep it up.'

'That's yer plan huh?' House continues waving a single finger at Wilson, as the others are curled around the frosted neck of a beer bottle, 'you're gonna sit there all _ss-_sober, while I get wasted n tellya all bout how good _Lees_ in bed?'

'Yeah, I'm practically funnelling it down your throat,' Wilson replies sarcastically.

'Well ya wouldn't even bull-eve it if I toldya cos shes a fuckin goddess, ya hear me? A godde_sssss_.'

'Um, hmm,' Wilson replies.

'S'no way… I'm not tellin' no way mate,' House says, before adding: 'thatss what Lee would ssay – _mate_,' and nodding as if he has made a profound statement.

'Cos we do it average sseven timesaweek,' he adds quickly.

Wilson rolls his eyes. 'Oh yeah, this is just like getting blood from a stone.'

'Some weekends we dun even getouta bed… sshe can't get enuffa me.'

'Lucky.'

'Yeah, n' it's not always in bed, we doit everywhere, we've prolly even dun it where yer sittin now!'

'Great,' Wilson mumbles.

'Yep, shesa regular star. N' she does 'is thing where she sits in my lap n'…. no, no, _nooo _wait, wait, wait a minute… hold up! I'm not tellin ya this, no! No, shhh, shhh, stop askin yer perve!'

'Terribly sorry – how rude of me.'

'But yer know, shes like, its like, shes like: I'm hot, ssso red hot, but guess what?'

House pauses and Wilson waits.

'Yer suposeta say: what?' House adds.

Wilson raises a brow, exasperated. 'What?'

'Shes like: I'm so hot, an I can make yer cum just by looking atcha but guess what – I'm also a great conversa…sa…ationalist. I'll talkabout anythin under sun… fa hours, hoursss: art n' history n' music n' medicine n' religion, ssspirtuality… fascinatin… shes jus fascinatin.'

Wilson nods.

'N' shes fun, she can take a joke, she jus dun giva shit bout da small things ya know? N' shesstrong, so strong – you wunt bull-eve the shitsshe puts up with from me.'

'I have a fair idea.'

'N she loves me ya know, really, well... I think ssshe does, who knowsss after t'day but...'

He pronounces this last word with a hiccup.

'N' I lova, er...h-er..._her,_ I love _her_, _man_ do I love her… oh, I'm sssofar gone!'

'I'll say your far gone,' Wilson replies, raising his brow and attempting to snatch the beer from House, who pulls it back and takes another swig, 'you're going to have the worst hangover in history.'

'I dun care,' House replies, taking yet another swig, 'I jus wanna ta come back. Do you think she'll come back Jim?'

'Well that all depends on what you did.'

House pauses for a moment, narrowing his heavy lidded eyes.

Wilson leans forward ever so slightly, waiting for a confession.

'Ah! Aha,' House exclaims suddenly, pointing at Wilson and grinning, 'nice try…'

Wilson nods, smiling insincerely as if to say: _you caught me,_ sarcastically.

'If she does come back,' Wilson says, 'maybe you should try telling her the things you're telling me – but you might want to work on your pronunciation – more coherent, less slurring.'

'Oh shit!'

'What?'

'I think I'm gonna puke,' House says, looking particularly green around the gills.

'Christ! The payout for being your friend is just not relative to the effort… I deserve a raise.'

'Wha?'

'Come on, get off your ass, I'm not cleaning your vomit off the couch and I'm sure Lee wouldn't appreciate the job either.'

'Lee? Wheres Lee? Dishe come back?'

'No, not yet, but she will.'

'Willshe? I dunno. Oh man, I fucked up bigtime… Oh I love er!'

Wilson regards his pathetically inebriated friend, and despite his certainty that the man is one hundred percent culpable, he feels a pang of sympathy.

'I know,' he says, 'and so does she. She'll come back – for sure. Come on now, get up.'


	42. XLII Better

So sorry for the delay!

The real world has been keeping me busy!!

* * *

XLII - Better

You're getting sadder, getting sadder, getting sadder, getting sadder  
And I don't understand, and I don't understand  
But if I kiss you where it's sore,  
If I kiss you where it's sore,  
Will you feel better, better, better,  
Will you feel anything at all?

-

Better – Regina Spektor

She is sitting on a picnic table in the park. Her feet, still bare, are positioned flat on the bench, one folded over the other. She flexes and scrunches her toes, regarding the soil and dust between them.

She imagines that the passers by must assume she is homeless.

_Why is that dishevelled woman sitting on the table staring into space? Must have skipped her meds today._

One of them approaches her cautiously, as if she is a stray dog whose temperament in unknown.

'Are you alright dear?' the old woman asks sheepishly.

Lee forces a smile and nods.

The woman, watching keenly from under the brim of her sun-flower patterned fabric hat, responds with a sceptical shake of her head, but she continues on her way nonetheless.

It is after noon.

She feels the sun heating her. She realises that she must stand out like a sore thumb – her bright red hair glowing in the stark afternoon light.

If he were to come past the park he would spot her immediately.

She hopes he will.

She wants to go home. She worries about what he may be thinking – that perhaps she has walked out on him, for good.

She wants to call him, or tell someone to tell him that she just needs time.

She wants to kiss him and tell him that nothing is the matter.

But she can't go back, not until she has had time to think on this – to find out what _is_ the matter.

She thinks she should be angry with him, and she was for a brief time, but she has forgiven him already and she has some qualms about this.

She was relieved in a way. Amongst all the other emotions: anger, fear, sadness, mistrust, disappointment – relief was one of the most potent.

That corner of the foil – lifted ever so slightly (oh he was careful, like the cunning fox she knows him to be, she wouldn't expect anything less) was a relief – suddenly it all fell into place.

The mood swings, the cold stares, the shouting, the dismissal – all manifestations of his guilt.

She has some closure, but there are unanswered questions.

_He was trying to get me pregnant – that much is obvious, but why?_

She wants to accept her immediate suggestion:

_He wants a baby?_

But it is too difficult to believe.

She cannot understand his actions and she knows she will need to question him directly, but in the meantime, she has to establish a fact.

………

'Hot car!' Graham exclaims, peeking out from behind his heavy oak front door – which is more decorative than practical – it appears to be rather difficult to swing on its hinges.

He has noticed the Corvette before he has noticed Lee's appearance.

'It's Greg's,' she says flatly, commanding his attention.

'Ugh!' he exclaims, 'sweetie, I've got some bad news, although Mary-Kate and Ashley tried their very best, the homeless look never caught on.'

'I slept in the _hot car_ last night,' she says, 'and let me tell you – it does not make for a hot bed.'

'Oh my god!'

'Can I stay here tonight?'

'Sure… what….?'

'Long story… don't really want to talk about it. I just need a place to take this.'

She holds the box containing the pregnancy test.

Graham's eyes widen.

………

Graham's partner, Tony, is seated at the end of their extensive dining table, scanning the newspaper. He peers over his thick framed glasses at Lee, before removing them, and clenching one of the arms between his front teeth.

His eyes travel from her bare feet to her knotted hair.

'Honey?' he says questioningly.

'Oh my god – _drama!'_ Graham exclaims, 'Lee could be pregnant – to Dr Blue-eyes!'

'Really?' Tony inquires.

'Yes,' Lee replies quietly, 'could be.'

'Why _could be_?'

'Because we've been having _completely_ unprotected sex for god knows how long!' Lee blurts, before biting her bottom lip – reprimanding herself.

She doesn't want to share this with anyone. She doesn't want to humiliate him. She certainly couldn't go to Wilson – she knows he is sensitive about their relationship, and she knows he is ashamed of his actions – informing Wilson would translate to betrayal.

Tony furrows his brow in confusion.

'What?' he asks, as if to say: _now why would you go and do a thing like that?_

Lee shakes her head in response, 'never mind, I'd rather not go there.'

'Ok,' Graham says 'well, I'm hardly an expert in these matters, but let's consider the evidence: unprotected sex – check…. hmmm, what else… have you missed a period?'

'No, it's not due for another two weeks.'

'Right, ok… morning sickness? Are you breasts tender?'

Graham attempts to touch Lee and receives a smack.

'I've been pregnant before, ok, I know what it feels like,' she snaps.

'What?!' Graham and Tony exclaim simultaneously, both with an upward infliction to their voice – revealing their fascination.

'You didn't tell me…' Graham says 'when… what...?!'

'To Greg, last year. I miscarried.'

'Oh my god!'

'So why the absconding?' Tony asks, 'is he angry that you might be…'

'No,' Lee says, interrupting.

_On the contrary…_

'Then…'

'Never mind,' Graham interjects, 'we need to get you showered, and we need to take this test.'

………

Graham reads the instructions on the box while Lee watches – perched on the uncomfortable edge of the _en vogue_ bath tub, biting her fingernails.

'Ok,' Graham says in his best problem solving voice, 'it says you urinate on the absorbent tip – eew!'

Lee rolls her eyes and snatches the box from him.

'Urinate on the absorbent end for approximatley 10 seconds,' she reads, 'allow a further sixty seconds for results. One blue line indicates a negative result. Two blue lines indicate a positive result.'

She raises her head to look at Graham.

'Ok,' she says, 'sounds simple enough.'

'I thought you said you've been pregnant before. Haven't you already done one of these?'

'No. It was odd, but the first time I just _knew_. And I never ended up doing a test to confirm it because I was just too… distracted by other things at the time…'

'And you've never had any close calls before this?'

'Nope,' she says, 'never – Greg is the only man who I've…' she stalls and Graham must sense her sadness, because he squeezes her arm reassuringly.

'Well do you _feel_ pregnant this time?' he asks.

'No,' she says quietly.

He kisses her forehead.

'Go pee on the stick,' he says.

………

Two pairs of eyes watch intently, waiting, willing the result to show.

'If there are two blue lines…?' Graham starts.

'I'm keeping the baby,' Lee says adamantly.

She doesn't break her focus for a second - staring expectantly at the indicator.

'And Greg…?'

'Well I'll tell him immediately. Last time I didn't and I regretted it. If there are two lines I'm going straight home.'

'Shouldn't you stay here for a little longer, just to let things cool off a bit?'

'It's been sixty seconds,' she says, ignoring Graham's question.

'One blue line,' she continues, 'but it takes a little longer for the second to show, right.'

'No longer than two minutes, I'd say,' Graham responds.

They wait another minute.

'Still only one blue line,' Graham says, 'that's a negative result. You're not pregnant.'

She looks at him, blinking.

_You're not pregnant. _

The comment seems so _final_.

Her expression crumples and she cries.

'Oh, sweetie,' Graham says, slipping an arm around her shoulder, 'I thought we were hoping for one blue line, not two.'

'No… yes,' she sobs, 'it's just that I… it's been a big week.'

'Sure,' he says softly, 'come on, Tony made the guest bed for you – one thousand thread count Egyptian cotton sheets,' he says temptingly.

………

She is still hidden under the one thousand thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets by noon the following day.

Graham enters quietly.

'Lee,' he whispers.

'I miss him!' she wails, throwing the sheets back.

Graham rolls his eyes.

'Oh Lee, it's only been two days.'

'I know, but I miss him _so badly_. My eyes hurt because I haven't seen him for more than 48 hours!'

'No, your eyes hurt because you've been crying for more than 48 hours.'

'I just need to talk to him – I need to hear his voice.'

Graham sighs.

'The heart wants what the heart wants,' he says, 'call him.'

…………

His cell phone begins vibrating on the desk – lights flashing, 'The Who,' blaring in a fabulous attention grabbing display.

'Out! Get out now!' he commands.

The three doctors seated before him exchange blank looks.

'NOW!' he barks.

Following their swift departure, he limps out onto the balcony.

Typically, he answers his cell phone with a cool: _'House,'_ but now it is a harried: 'Lee?'

'Greg,' she says eagerly.

'Where are you?' he demands softly, 'wh.…'

'I'm coming home,' she says reassuringly, 'I just needed to…'

'Yeah,' he interrupts, 'Lee, I…'

It is her turn to interrupt. 'We can't talk about this over the phone…I just wanted to say that I love you, ok?'

'Ok.'

'I'll see you tonight, ok?'

'Ok.'

………

She sits beside him on the bed. His eyes are closed.

'Greg,' she says softly.

He is still and his eyes remain closed.

'Greg,' she says, raising her voice slightly.

'I know you're awake,' she says, 'you can't just pretend to be asleep, we _need_ to talk about this.'

His eyes blink open.

'Well I'm not the one who ran away,' he says.

'I thought we both needed the chance to settle before we talk.'

She is so calm in this moment. He cannot believe the unrelenting tolerance she has for his behaviour. He envies her emotional self control.

'Oh don't pretend you're not pissed off,' he says, sitting up.

'I'll do not such thing!' she says, 'I'm _extremely_ pissed off!'

'Then let me know,' he says, 'yell at me.'

'No,' she says.

'Come on,' he says, sitting up, 'I'm an ass. I messed with you pills, I messed with your body, I tried to mess with your life – the big scheme of things!'

He is shouting now.

'Yell at me!' he demands.

'No,' she protests calmly.

'YELL AT ME!'

'NO!' she shouts in return.

'There,' she says after a moment, 'that's the best you'll get. Even ten year olds know that yelling is counterproductive. I 'ran away,' so that we could have time by ourselves to think, so we wouldn't need to yell at each other, because yelling is only a substitute for thinking and logical argument.'

'Oh, don't give me that psycho babble…'

'Did you do this to see how far you could push me?' she interrupts.

'What?' he asks.

'Well you seem keen for a screaming match, that's all.'

He thinks. No response.

'Or maybe you're just trying to skirt the issue – well there's no way this one is going to fade into the background Greg, you tried to get me pregnant!'

'Tell me why that pissed you off?' he says.

She knows he asks this as a rhetorical question – he is simply allowing her the opportunity to be angry with him, and to express why.

She appreciates this.

'I was confused,' she says, 'about what was going on with my body – and worried, I was having periods when I wasn't supposed to… it reminded me of the miscarriage. I was confused about you – the way you were behaving, I was so scared for us.'

She can tell that he is forcing himself to look her in the eye – though it is excruciating.

'…not to mention the fact that you tried to force something upon me,' she says, 'to make decisions about my body as if it was your own…'

He can sympathise with this point all too well.

'…but really,' she says, 'it's the fact that you deceived me that hurts the most.'

'Sorry,' he says quietly, defeated by his own antics. He feels as if he is also a victim in this situation – a victim of his own demons.

'Why did you do it?' she demands.

She notices something in his eyes that makes her soften her attack.

'Greg, do you really _want me to be_ pregnant?' she asks.

He won't look at her now, and she had expected this reaction so she moves closer to him and gently touches his chin.

'Darling,' she says softly, 'you're such a puzzle sometimes. There are so many reasons you could have done this, I need to know which one it is. Please tell me the truth.'

She feels her body relax when he finally looks at her.

'Do you _want me to be_ pregnant?' she repeats.

After a customary moment of gazing at her, he speaks.

'Yeah,' he admits quietly.

'_Really?_' she asks in disbelief.

He nods.

'Why?'

She gives him a moment but he cannot answer this question.

'Do you really want to have a baby with me?' she says, 'a family?'

He nods again, admitting reluctantly.

She is shocked into silence. She has underestimated him.

'Why didn't you _say something_?' she asks eventually, sympathetically.

And she loses him for a moment. He looks at the window.

'Because that's the way I do things,' he says, with a hint of self loathing, 'that's the way I handle relationships. I fuck them up. I have a pretty good track record, you know that, but I've actually outdone myself this time. I don't know why you're still here.'

'Oh,' she sighs, covering her gaping mouth with her hand as she realises something, 'you're not happy are you?' she asks.

He looks at her.

'That's why you asked me… weeks ago, when we were in bed, you asked me if I was happy. You asked me because you're not happy are you?'

Her voice quavers as if she is going to cry.

'No,' he whispers.

'Why?'

He has looked away again.

'Because life is transient. There are only few things that _really_ matter, but you have no guarantee that you can hang on to them.'

'I have an idea,' she says.

Still no contact.

'Let's get married,' she says plainly.

He turns his head abruptly and blinks – once, twice.

'What?!'

'Really. I want you to know how serious I am about this. Put the baby issue aside for a while because I'll tell you, I have more than minor reservations about that, and it deserves a discussion of its own. But that issue aside, I want to do this. I want you to marry me.'

'You want to marry me? _Me?_ The guy who's fucked up your life on countless occasions. The guy who dumped you and treated you like crap, got you pregnant, almost killed himself and caused your miscarriage, and most recently… here's the kicker… lied, manipulated and snuck around behind your back, trying to get you pregnant again!'

She nods. 'But I say we dispense with the vows if that's all you can come up with,' she jokes.

He cannot believe that she can joke at a time like this. He realizes how annoyed other people must be when he does it himself.

He is silenced.

'It's the perfect idea,' she continues, 'I want you to stop all of this talk about breaking up, about me being better off without you. We sign a contract that says we intend to stay together, and essentially, this contract negates any talk about break ups.'

He remains paused.

'Don't be scared, I'm not one of those girls who dreams about fluffy meringue dresses, bride's maids and table settings. I couldn't think of anything more mundane. We can elope. Go to the registrar one afternoon after work, take Wilson as our witness and sign the damn papers.'

Still no response

'I mean it. Then instead of _maybe we shouldn't do this_ it would be, _maybe we should get a divorce_, but that would require you to read over the papers and sign them and I know you couldn't be bothered to do that.'

'You don't have to say this,' he says, 'it's not too late for you to back out. In fact, it's the perfect opportunity. I've practically handed it to you on a silver platter.'

She nudges him. 'Come on,' she says, 'why did you fly half way across the world to get me back? So we could live together for three months and then say, _actually…let's give it a miss hey_. Nope, this is serious – we're in this for the long hall.'

His expression softens.

'Greg House,' she says, 'when will you learn – you can't get rid of me.'

A smile pulls at the corners of his lips.

'So what do you reckon…' she says, 'next week? Maybe the week after, I think there has to be two weeks notice, and I think they require blood tests in New Jersey don't they?'

'No.'

'No, they don't require blood tests?'

'No, we're not getting married.'

'No?'

'No.'

She bites the inside of her mouth and waits for a moment.

'I'll think about it,' he says.

'Good,' she replies, 'just don't think about it for too long.'

'And,' she adds, 'don't _ever_ pull another stunt like that!'

She snatches a pillow from beside him and stands.

'Where are you going?' he asks.

'I'm going to sleep on the couch. I can't sleep beside you tonight. I'm still highly fertile and I'm afraid that you might try to impregnate me again,' she jokes.

He doesn't find the humor. He cannot bare the thought that she will be sleeping under the same roof, and will not share the bed.

………

An hour later, he stands over her as she sleeps on the couch.

'Lee,' he says, nudging her gently, waking her.

'Huh?' she mutters, her eyes flicking open.

In the darkness, she can barely make out the silhouette of his figure standing beside her. After a moment, her eyes adjust and she sees him – his baggy pyjama pants and crumpled tee-shirt, holding his cane by his side, displaying the most pathetic expression imaginable.

'Sorry,' he says.

'You've already said that.'

He takes her arm and pulls her body forward, sitting and awkwardly sliding his body under hers on the couch.

He holds her head in his hands and presses his mouth to her ear.

'Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry,' he whispers, lisping the word each time.

And she thinks this is the most beautiful thing she has ever heard.

'I wanted to call her Grace,' he says.

She understands his meaning instantly.

He quietens himself when he hears her crying.

'Are we ok?' he asks after a moment.

'Yes,' she insists, 'why do you think I asked you to marry me?'

'Because it's a bandage solution,' he says.

'No,' she says, 'it's not any type of _solution_, because there is no problem to solve. It's certainly not a bandage because there's no wound. It's just a promise that even when we fight like this, we're going to stay together. We're going to be ok. We're just getting comfortable, we're trying to find our homeostasis.'

'And you think marriage is a good step in finding this _homeostasis?'_

'Yes.'

'Alright then,' he says, 'lets do it.'

She nods.

'Greg,' she says.

'Hmm?'

'Let's go back to bed, this couch is lumpy.'

She stands and pulls him from the couch.

She holds his hand as they walk together, returning to the bedroom.


	43. XLIII Rock

**Author's Notes:**

This is for Houseketeer cos she loves surprises.

WARNING: House does something terribly romantic in this chapter. I know it could be interpreted as uncharacteristic, but I take my cues from the subtle hints at his latent romanticism – the corsage for Cameron, the 'prescription' for Stacy's heart condition (come on, admit it girls, he _does_ have it in him) …

More shameless smut in this chapter...

Again, my sincerest thanks to all who are still reading - and my wonderful regular reviewers - you have no idea how excited I get when I have new Homeostasis reviews in my inbox! A special thanks to Surferosa, Cyn, and Houseketeer for 'poking' me to write the last chap - much appreciated!

* * *

XLIII – Rock

All the way from Venus,

Invading from Mars,

Don't let that come between us,

It's written in the stars.

-

Pure Pleasure Seeker, Moloko

-

He finds her standing in the bathroom, staring intently at a plastic object in her hand – as if it is a bomb, ticking away seconds until detonation.

She turns to see him.

'I'm not pregnant,' she says quietly, 'I took another test. I'm _definitely_ not pregnant.'

At this, she sighs and gazes through the window, perhaps awaiting an epiphany?

He limps toward her slowly, and simply takes hold of her – enveloping her completely with his embrace – hiding her tiny body from the world.

'Do you want to be?' he says into her hair.

'I don't know,' she responds.

And that is it. He will not push the matter.

Not now, anyway.

………

As he watches her from his seat in the lounge room; stirring the contents of a saucepan over the stove – her shapely legs appearing under her astute pencil skirt, her bare feet (black pumps discarded by the door) – one flat on the ground, the other caressing the back of her calf, he contemplates the fact that he hasn't truly enjoyed the feel of her naked skin under his fingertips, or the wet kiss of her lips in months. For too long, these things had been taken for granted – only a necessity in his heinous scheme.

He takes his cane, and with some effort, he raises himself from the sofa.

In the kitchen, he places on hand neatly on the ledge of her hip and nuzzles his face in the loose hair around her shoulders.

'Come to bed with me now…' he says softly, 'please.'

She turns abruptly, meeting with his persuasive eyes and despondent expression.

'Sex?' she asks.

He nods hesitantly.

Much to his surprise, she drops the wooden spoon, slings an arm around his neck and kisses him excitedly.

When she pulls back from him momentarily, his brow is raised in surprise.

'I thought you didn't want to…' he says.

'You thought _I_ didn't want to do it?' she asks, 'I thought _you_ didn't want to do it!'

'I want to do it,' he says.

She turns from him, quickly extinguishing the flame under the saucepan.

'Now!' she commands, taking his hand and striding towards the bedroom.

………

On the bed, he crawls clumsily over her body like a drunken frat boy – his impatient fingers loosing the buttons on her blouse at lightening speed.

'Oh my god,' she mumbles as his whiskers, lips and tongue and teeth scrape her throat, 'how stupid – look what happens when we don't talk, we miss out on sex!'

'Hnnghh,' he grunts in agreement.

'For the past two weeks,' she says, 'I've just been watching you and wanting to…_uh!_'

'Tell me about it,' he says, raising his head from her cleavage.

She smiles at his dishevelled appearance – messy hair and lips swollen red from kissing.

'I had to jerk off,' he continues, 'I can't even remember the last time I had to do that!'

'Oh darling!' she exclaims, laughing, cradling his head, 'I don't want you to ever have to resort to relieving _yourself _again…'

He nods in enthusiastic agreement, before resuming his fondling, undressing activity.

'Oh! I have an idea,' she says suddenly, wriggling out from beneath him.

'Take your shirt off,' she adds as she rolls onto her stomach and reaches for the table on her side of the bed.

Happily, he complies, lodging his thumb behind the collar of his shirt, lifting it to bunch at his shoulders, before pulling it over his head and discarding it on the floor.

'There is only one thing I like just as much as sex,' she says.

'What's that?' he asks.

They are both kneeling on the bed now, facing one another. She is enjoying the sight of him, shirtless, wearing only his jeans and socks, hair tousled, smiling excitedly in the way he does when he knows he is going to get laid.

'Chocolate,' she replies, watching him with a sly grin as she unscrews the lid of the small container she had retrieved from the bedside table.

'Sex _and_ chocolate…' she continues, 'well that's the stuff dreams are made off.'

He reads the label on the container. His eyes widen.

_Body chocolate. _

'Where did you get that?' he asks.

'Sex shop,' she replies.

'You went to a sex shop?' he asks, 'without me?'

'Online,' she replies, dipping two fingers into the liquid chocolate.

'Get anything else?' he asks.

'Not this time around,' she says, 'I saved the website in the internet favourites folder – you should check it out.'

'I will.'

She leans to him and touches her fingers to his lips – smearing them with chocolate, before kissing it away.

'Good?' she asks, sitting back on her haunches, licking her lips, watching him do the same.

'Mmm,' he mumbles in reply.

She discards the container on the bed momentarily, and reaching out, she hooks her fingers into his belt, tugging to hint that he should move closer.

He shifts closer to her and she starts working the buckle below his navel, 'take your pants off,' she says.

'That has to be one of my favourite things to hear,' he says, 'coming from you of course, not when I'm having a routine check-up.'

Raising herself on her knees again, she hooks her arm around his neck and regards him for a moment, considering how she will kiss him. Will she angle her head this way or that? A series of gentle pecks, or a passionate ambush? Will she tease him slowly with her tongue, or slide it into his mouth in one fell swoop? There are so many delectable combinations – and each is just as effective at rousing him.

She has decided on the passionate ambush.

'I'm so horny, I'm buzzing,' she says, following the _'clicking,'_ sounds of their hungry kiss.

'Again, one of my favourite things to hear from you.'

'You're still wearing your pants,' she complains.

'Well,' he says, discarding his belt, unzipping the fly of his jeans and pushing them down to his knees, 'I don't see you stripping… come on, I wanna see some more lace.'

She quickly liberates herself from her open blouse and reaches behind to unzip her skirt before shimmying out of it completely, satisfying him with a view of her black lace lingerie.

'Lie down,' she commands.

'Wow, you're very bossy this afternoon.'

'You love it,' she replies.

'I do, and it is giving me some ideas – I've been trying to come up with your bedroom name. I told Wilson you call me _Doctor Love_.'

She laughs as she retrieves the container, dipping her entire hand inside, before splaying her fingers and pressing her palm flat on his naked chest – leaving a chocolate hand print.

'This is so much fun,' she says, tucking her hair behind her ear with her clean hand before lowering her head.

'I'll say!' he agrees, watching her lick the chocolate from his skin.

'We're going to make a mess of the sheets though,' he says.

'Since when do you care about the state of the sheets after sex?' she says, 'we _always_ make a mess of the sheets.'

'Besides,' she says, taking his hand and dipping his fingers into the chocolate, 'we'll get them cleaned up.'

'We'll have to get ourselves cleaned up too – a shower, or maybe a bath,' she adds suggestively, lifting his chocolate coated fingers and inserting them in her mouth, 'the fun never stops.'

The _ridiculously_ titillating sensation of her tongue swirling around his finger is replicated further down his body.

He feels his erection growing under the confides of his boxers.

He raises a brow, 'I say, in order to make up for these past weeks, we see if we can beat our record.'

'What did we get up to?' she asks, 'five?'

He shakes his head, 'six.'

'When did we do it six times in one go?' she asks, doubtfully.

'That Sunday afternoon, remember? Six sex Sunday,' he says – the s's catching on his tongue with his lisp.

'So we're aiming for seven?' she says, 'I don't know – how bout we go for quality rather than quantity. There aren't enough hours left in the day.'

'Sure there are,' he insists, 'it's only five now. If we do it once an hour – we'll end our little sexcapade around midnight. That'll give us a good eight hours to sleep – and maybe we can have an encore in the morning.'

'Ah, I think you're forgetting the need for essential activities such as bathing and eating.'

'Duh,' he says, 'we'll work it in. We're already doing a good job of incorporating food, and it was your idea to share a bath to get clean – that's two down, five to go…'

'Mmm, chocolate is one thing, but I've defrosted steak for dinner and I don't think that's so sexy to roll around in bed with.'

'We'll fit dinner and a quickie into one hour, don't sweat it – you know I can have you purring like a naughty little kitty in five minutes flat.'

'Hmm, this is true,' she says, moving down his body, pinching his socks at the toes and removing them one by one.

'Well come on,' he says, 'we've waisted a good five minutes chitchatting about it – lets get busy already!'

'You asked for it!' she exclaims, suddenly slipping her fingers under the elastic of his boxers and wrenching them down to his knees.

His cock stands to attention.

She dips her fingers in the chocolate once more, and applies a generous dollop to the head of his erection.

He watches her – awed.

'Hey,' he says, 'are you sure that stuff is ok, I'm not going to end up with a nasty rash or anything, am I?'

'How should I know,' she replies, 'you're the doctor - _Doctor Love_.'

She grins in amusement, but his expression is one of concern.

'Oh relax,' she says, 'it's _body_ chocolate, its safe.'

And with that, she lowers her head and her tongue flicks out to clean the offending substance from the head of his penis.

He gasps and arches off the bed.

Despite being completely aware, he reacts as if he is surprised at the intensity of the feeling – a sharp, hot, but immensely pleasurable sensation. Her tongue lingers for a little longer than necessarily, teasing the aperture on the bulb of his cock.

He flinches, his breathing becoming irregular.

Her hands move to his hips, pinning him to the mattress, restricting his movement.

Her hair falls from behind her ears like a curtain, tickling the trail of hairs along his lower belly.

'_Jesus Christ,'_ he moans, admitting defeat, staring at the ceiling, listening to the sound of his own pulse in his ears.

She works him with one hand around the base of his shaft, and her tongue swirling and flicking until he pants: _'Ok, stop…'_

She knows he has a good few seconds left in him, so she persists until he is shuddering and convulsing on the mattress and…. stops.

'Argh,' he exclaims in disappointment.

'You told me to stop,' she says, raising a brow.

A grin lifts the corner of his mouth. He manages to sit up enough to seize her by the arms and throw her down on the mattress, eliciting a squeal of delight. He retrieves the container of chocolate, and dips his fingers in messily, before drawing them out and flicking his wrist violently to splat chocolate over her body as if she were a blank canvas, and he were a passionate artist, creating a postmodern painting. He repeats this gesture several times, as she writhes beneath him, throwing her head back into the pillow and shrieking with laughter. He sits back momentarily to view his work. A mess. Both Lee, and the bedsheets are now splattered with chocolate. He tosses the now empty container aside and starting with her cheeks and chin and throat, he moves down her body, licking chocolate from every inch of her exposed skin, pausing to remove her underwear along the way.

Inspecting her panties before discarding them, he discovers that she is ready for him, but he slips two fingers inside of her to be sure.

It is her turn to gasp and arch of the bed now, but she manages to grip his shoulders and quickly switch positions with him on the mattress.

As he lays sprawled beneath her, she sits astride his hips.

She grins wickedly, before she starts to fuck him, but the intensity of it requires her to close her eyes and bite her lip.

'_Greg!'_ she sighs, _'oh, Greg…'_

They rarely call each other's names in this way. They have both claimed it to be trite, but she knows how much he _really_ enjoys it. She uses it as her secret weapon.

Hearing her call his name while she clenches around him – hot and wet, that blissful pull at his cock – brings him dangerously close to orgasm.

'Shhh…' he appeals to her.

'_Oh! Gr-e-e-g!_'

Another wave of pleasure intensifies.

'Shhh…' he repeats, reaching up and pressing his fingers to her mouth.

She takes this hand and redirects it, putting it to good use where her hips grind against his – forcing his fingers against her clit.

'_Greg, that feels so good…'_

'Lee, shhh…'

His effort is futile, she continues to call out in ecstasy because now she is coming.

'OH GREG!!'

'_Oh…fuck…! L-e-e!'_ he chokes on her name as he comes.

She splays her hands on his chest and giggles as she watches him, panting, displaying an expression of shock from the force of his orgasm.

'Good?' she asks.

'_Oh yeah!'_ he replies breathlessly.

'Come on then,' she says, lifting her leg over him and sliding off the bed, 'time for round two, I'll run the bath…'

………

'I need your help with something Friday night,' he says to Wilson in the cafeteria.

'Ah I can't,' Wilson replies, stabbing the cubes of tofu that decorate his salad with a useless plastic fork, 'I gotta move my furniture from…'

'Forget your furniture, this is important…'

'Can't be as important as furnishing my new apartment. I'm sick of sleeping on a futon and…'

'I need you to be my best man slash witness,' House interrupts.

'What?' Wilson exclaims.

House rolls his eyes. 'You heard.'

'As in, best man to the groom?'

House nods.

'As in _bride_ and groom, as in Lee and you?' Wilson says in disbelief.

'No, as in Chase and me. Haven't you heard, they've legalised gay marriage in New Jersey,' House jokes, 'yes Lee and me, City Hall, six pm.'

'So what, you guys were fighting, you were worried that it was all over, and now you're getting _married_?'

'Yup,' House responds, before pinching a cube of tofu from Wilson's bowl.

'I don't believe it,' Wilson says, blinking repeatedly, dropping his fork on the table.

'_Eeuck!'_ House exclaims, snatching the neatly folded napkin from beneath Wilson's elbow to reject the masticated tofu with an impolite spit.

A waft of perfume – woody notes and oriental spices complementing a traditional rose base; announces a female presence at the table.

'So,' Wilson says, angling his head to view Lee, 'Friday's the big day, huh?'

His tone is accusing, like a father questioning his teenage daughter: _what have you done, young lady?_

'Yep,' she replies frankly, neatly folding her skirt before occupying the free chair.

'She calls herself a feminist,' House says, pointing at Lee with his thumb, 'and yet she wants to take my name.'

'Lee House,' Wilson says, testing the name aloud.

'Sounds French,' he adds, before feigning an exaggerated French accent, 'je suis le house.'

'Yeah,' House says mockingly, 'except the _French_ word you are looking for is: _maison_ – house. And _le_ is the masculine pronoun, but the French word for house is feminine – so you want the feminine pronoun: _la_. Oh, and you said: _I am_ the house. What you meant was: _ceci est la maison._'

Lee's bottom lip falls.

'Clearly I flunked French in junior high,' Wilson says.

'Clearly,' House replies.

Lee clutches House's thigh under the table.

'Say it again,' she requests.

House grins and repeats: '_ceci est la maison,_' in a well pronounced French accent.

'Oh!' Lee exclaims.

'She loves it when I speak French,' House tells Wilson, 'it's a great bedroom trick – I don't even have to touch her to make her squeal.'

House leans closer and whispers in her ear, 'Lee, vous êtes une belle femme.'

'Uh! Stop it!' Lee exclaims playfully, 'you're such a tease, you know I can't jump you in public.'

'Je veux faire l'amour à vous,' he continues.

'Mmmm,' Lee purrs, her fingers roaming over the denim of House's inner thigh.

'Oh god!' Wilson exclaims, rolling his eyes.

'Enjoy your tofu Jimmy,' House says, standing and gesturing to Lee, 'we're going to find a supply closet.'

She drops her body beside his on the sofa – wearing three layers of clothing, two pairs of socks and _ugg_ boots, nursing a bowl of dry _Cheerios_ in her lap.

'It's cold,' she announces, burrowing beside him, attempting to steal his warmth.

Her free hand slips under his sweater.

'It's not _that_ cold,' he says, eyeing her ensemble.

'Can we use the fireplace,' she asks, glancing at the impressive, ornate hearth over her shoulder, which in her experience has been more ornamental than functional.

'Only if we can make love by it,' he jokes.

'Ok,' she says, grinning expectantly.

He smiles to himself as she rests her head on his shoulder, feeding Cheerios through the gate of her front teeth and munching incessantly. He contemplates the fact that her actions have the potential to be annoying, however, he isn't even slightly perturbed, only grateful.

He flicks television channels idly, pausing intermittently, waiting for something to catch his interest. After viewing all that is on offer – twice, his brain has registered interest in one channel – the bright colours and bold shapes of cartoons. He backtracks, flicking through the channels once more.

'Wait,' Lee calls, pointing to the television, '_Project Runway_.'

'Aw,' House moans, displaying a mock pout, 'but _Scooby-Doo_ is on.'

She sits upright, spilling Cheerios over her lap.

'You love _Scooby_?' she asks.

He nods. 'Daphne's hot – see, I've always had a thing for redheads.'

'I knew we shared a love of Sponge-Bob,' she says, 'but you love Scooby _as well_. That's it, we're soul mates!'

He looks at her.

'Hey,' he says, 'I wanna show you something.'

'Hm?' she mumbles, cocking her head to the side.

He stands and moves to the linen closet in the hall. He produces a thick woollen blanket, and throws it over his arm. Now he limps to the bookshelf and takes down an ancient box that she has always regarded as one of his intriguing artefacts, but hasn't bothered to touch. He pockets something, and though she squints, she can't make it out.

He moves to the front door.

'What?...' she starts.

'Come on,' he says impatiently, gesturing with his hand.

She stands, places her bowl of Cheerios on the coffee table and follows him cautiously – plodding in her ugg boots. Outside the door, she follows him to the end of the hall. There is short flight of steps leading to a door.

'What are you doing?' she asks, as he awkwardly climbs the first few steps.

'Don't ask questions,' he replies, clutching his thigh.

He continues to climb the steps slowly. She hops up quickly to meet him on the fifth step. She watches him, considering whether to help him. He manages well enough on his own. On the top step, he produces a set of keys from his pocket.

He unlocks the door.

'Where did you get them?' she asks.

'Went to visit the landlord,' he replies, dropping the keys back in his pocket.

She cannot imagine that he landlord had parted with these knowingly.

'You stole the landlord's keys?'

He wrinkles his nose. 'He'll just think he dropped them down the back of the couch.'

She smiles. He pushes the door open and they step out onto the roof. She watches as he unfolds the blanket, arranging it on the ground.

She shivers, embracing herself, but as she watches him fixing the blanket, she cannot imagine complaining.

'Not quite the same effect as lying on a beach,' he says, looking up at the sky.

Tiny, bright white specks like diamonds scattered over a deep blue velvet cloth.

'Oh Greg,' she sighs, covering her mouth, acknowledging his attempt to re-create the beach scene she had described to him earlier in their relationship.

She moves closer to him, and starts to lower herself to sit on the blanket.

'Wait!' he says abruptly.

She pauses.

Rather painfully, he kneels in front of her. She sees him grimace as he shifts the weight off his bad leg, and he falls forward slightly. Her arms shoot out to stabilize him.

'Greg honey, what are you doing?' she asks, puzzled.

'Do me a favour, don't talk?'

She shakes her head, confused. He seems rather embarrassed as he rummages in the pockets of his jeans, finally producing a small box. She takes it from him slowly.

She looks at the box – at him – at the box.

She feels stupid for not realising sooner, but he done his old trick – astounded her, shocked, her, and left her breathless once again.

She blinks back tears.

'What, you thought there wasn't going to be a ring?' he says.

'Well, technically I proposed… and we hadn't…' she replies, words rolling around her mouth with no place to go.

'Well, I was going to do it,' he says sheepishly, 'eventually. You just beat me to it.'

She lets the tears flow freely now. She drops to her knees to join him. She pulls his body to hers, hugging him.

'Well, aren't you going to check out the rock?' he says, joking, trying to save face.

'Greg, I wouldn't care if you gave me a plastic toy ring from a cereal box,' she says.

She sits back and opens the box, revealing an intricate ring with a large, single, rectangular ruby. Her eyes widen.

'Oh my god!' she exclaims.

She smiles and shakes her head, staring in disbelief. 'It's… it's… _Jesus_, it's so…how did you pick it?'

'I bought it in India. Diamonds are boring – no colour,' he says, watching her face, 'diamonds are not for you.'

She smiles.

'Did you know,' he continues, 'that contrary to popular belief, rubies are actually the rarest and most sort after of the precious gemstones? Colour and character – _rubies_, are for you.'

Aghast, she removes the ring from the box, splays her fingers, and readies herself to slide it on, when he snatches it from her abruptly. Following protocol once more, trying to be romantic, he takes her small hand in his.

'It is perfect,' she says smiling, as he fixes it in place.

She punches him playfully so that he rocks back – unsteadily on his heels, and she has to catch him.

'You're a sap,' she says jokingly, using her thumb to wipe the tears from under her eyes.

He grins. 'No-one can ever know.'

* * *

Oh, and I don't speak French - so if it was dodgy, I appologise to anyone who does! 


	44. XLIV Housewife

**Author's note:**

Thanks to my lovely Beta: Houseketeer, for all of her suggestions (the Red Sox rock) and for stroking my ego by sharing her 'favorites,' with me.

Thanks to _anyone and everyone_ who is still reading this ridiculously long fic – and thanks for all of your comments and words of encouragement, - I got **_14_** reviews for the last chapter and I was **_elated_**. Much appreciated.

* * *

XLIV – Housewife

Cause he loves me, he loves me  
He really, really loves me  
And his eyes are bluer  
Than the bluest sky above the city  
You don't agree?  
Well, what a pity  
He loves me, yes, he does

-

My Man - Regina Spektor

-

It rains on their wedding day.

She thinks it is ideal in some way.

'_Beauty in imperfection,'_ she says quietly, smiling to herself as she watches the gray day drizzling behind the windows of her office.

She has always favored rainy days – they set a mood, they are ethereal, invigorating.

She couldn't be happier for the weather.

She could be happier about her agenda, however. She has a new appointment – late, pushing all of her commitments, including her nuptials, forward.

She calls his cell.

He answers with a mock hillbilly accent, 'Hank's half priced hitchin' service, we'll get you hitched for half the cost, just don't ask to see our credentials.'

Caller ID.

She laughs.

'You're funny,' she says, 'I love you.'

'Well sweetie,' he continues in his accent, 'the idea is – you call us when you're found someone to marry, you don't call up, professing your love to any ol' coot who answers the phone.'

'I'm so excited about tonight,' she says, playing with the phone cord, as if she is a teenager on the eve of the prom.

'Great sugar,' he persists with the accent still, and she reprimands herself for having encouraged him, 'but we still haven't solved the problem of finding you a husband.'

'Stop it,' she laughs.

'Stop what?'

'Ok, I'd like to speak to Greg – is Greg there please?'

'Sure,' the hillbilly pretends to be disappointed, 'I'll get him for you.'

She hears scuffling noises as he simulates the sound of the phone being passed on.

'Is that Lee?' she hears down the phone, 'inbred, knock-kneed, toothless bastard, give me my fucking phone.'

The intensity of her giggling fit is causing a cramp in her middle.

'House,' he says finally.

'Darling,' she says, attempting to normalize her breathing, 'I'm going to be late. I've already arranged for Wilson to take our suitcases to the hotel, could you get a ride with him, and I'll catch a taxi?'

He is silent for a moment. She knows he finds this objectionable.

'I'll wait for you,' he says seriously, 'how late will you be?'

He sounds perturbed.

'Not too late at all, but one of us has to be on time, we're the last service and I don't want us to miss out.'

'Yeah, ok,' he says agreeing reluctantly.

'Greg, I'm not going to leave you standing at the altar,' she says, discrediting his tone, 'I'll be there if I have to move heaven and earth.'

'Yeah, ok,' he says again, somewhat more optimistically.

'I love you,' she says, 'and your crazy hillbilly friend.'

It is his turn to laugh.

………

'Why are you doing this?' Wilson asks, fastening a deep red satin tie around House's neck – as tight as a noose.

'Lee wants me to look decent,' he replies, before smacking Wilson's hand away, 'but she also wants me to be able to _breathe_.'

'Not the tie,' Wilson says, forfeiting his duties as fitter and retiring to the couch, 'you know what I mean.'

'_You've_ been married three times,' House says accusingly.

'Why are _you_ doing this?' Wilson repeats, emphasizing the pronoun, personalizing the attack.

House sighs. 'It's time to grow up Jimmy.'

'Mid life crisis?'

'I _said_, time to grow up, not: time to clutch desperately at any semblance of youth,' he contends, struggling with the tie in front of the mirror by the door, 'I know she's nearly half my age, ok.'

'Ok,' Wilson responds, throwing his hands in the air in a gesture of submission.

'It just makes sense now,' House says, chin down, concentrating on the knot at his throat, 'and yeah, sucks that I'm pushing fifty.'

'Right girl at the right time?' Wilson says, taking a swig from his previously discarded bottle of beer.

'Right girl _made_ the time right,' House says to Wilson in the mirror.

'Why Lee?'

'She tolerates me,' he states, turning back to Wilson and regarding his expression.

'Sounds like I'm settling for anything I can get right?' he says in response to raised eyebrows.

'Well when you put it that way…' Wilson starts.

'Well I'm not, she tolerates me, _and_ she never bores me, she never pisses me off.'

'Lovely,' Wilson says, 'are you sure you don't want to reconsider the: _no vows_ thing – that should be commemorated on a bronze plaque – or sent to Hallmark as a Valentine's Day card.'

House rolls his eyes.

'Oh it's more than that,' he protests, 'you know, she's… she's so… Look, I'm no good at this. That's what you get when you try to squeeze sappy shit from me – just plain shit.'

Wilson nods in agreement.

'I love her,' he adds seriously, 'and I've tried not to, but I can't.'

'So this is your white flag?'

House nods. 'Pretty much sums it up – you answered your own question Jim.'

………

She emerges from the taxicab, sidestepping a deep puddle so as not to spoil her delicate new silver Manolos. It seems that her meeting with open air triggers a heavy downpour of rain, but she can only laugh as she pulls her trench coat close to her body and skips to the shelter under the building's awning. She pats her hair to gauge the extent of her soaking, and brushes a few droplets from the resistant surface of the shoulders of her coat. She grins charmingly at the concierge before turning to view the scene inside the warm, well lit foyer of city hall.

She sees him first: her darling, standing tall above the others, handsome and gruff and intolerant as ever – mustering every bit of strength to force a smile whenever required. There are five others in the party. Blythe and John House, Blythe in her Sunday best, and John with a permanent scowl to match his son's. She wonders how he had received their surprise appearance – with a confusing cocktail of contempt and contentment, she imagines. Graham - the stanch socialite, gestures wildly at the decor, engaging Wilson (whose eyes dart between the fashionista's perfect coiffure and shoes) in conversation. Cuddy – the most nervous of them all, seems out of place, though she owns the room in a fabulous blue dress and glossy ebony waves.

Lee nods in gratitude as the concierge opens the door for her. She unbuckles her trench and shrugs it from her shoulders, folding it neatly over her arm – revealing her dress. Nothing spectacular she assumes, it's just a simple, white, knee-length slip of a thing with lace detailing here and there. She greets them all, one by one, smiling warmly and kissing – but really, each of them is only an obstacle to him.

He waits patiently in the corner for his turn, eyes fixed expectantly on her at all times.

Blythe comments on the pearl earrings she had given, and tears well in her eyes. John accepts her kiss and smiles amicably. Cuddy presents her with a gift of well wishes and a bouquet of white roses and Graham comments on the dress – which apparently, _is_ spectacular – as are her shoes and hair and jewelry and lipstick…

In her mental tally, she ticks each guest off one by one, Wilson is the only remaining obstacle.

She smiles at him but his smile is fleeting.

'Can I talk to you?' he says quietly, taking her elbow and guiding her away from the others – to a private corner, behind a potted palm on the opposite side of the room.

She glances over her shoulder once to see House push off the wall, standing tall, lifting his chin and watching them keenly.

'Lee, why are you doing this?' Wilson whispers.

'What!?' she demands, the volume of her voice surpassing his whisper.

Blythe peers over her shoulder at the disturbance and Wilson cringes.

'Why are you marrying House?'

She giggles uncomfortably at his seriousness and conviction.

'What do you mean? Because I love him.'

He shakes his head from side to side. 'Mm-yeah, but House and marriage, come on!'

'What do you suggest?' she says, becoming slightly agitated, 'we call the whole thing off because marriage doesn't seem to be something House would do?'

'Its just that – well, maybe you're _too_ good for each other,' he says, obviously struggling to articulate himself clearly.

She furrows her brow and purses her lips, ready with another _wh_ question.

'I mean, you're a lot like him sometimes, so maybe you _both_ haven't thought this through well enough.'

She giggles – more confidently this time because she has realized his motivations.

'What you're saying is: Lee, _I like you and all, but I need to know if your heart is really in this, because I'm worried for my friend?'_

He nods in confession – staring at the carpet as if in shame for doubting her.

She places a hand on his shoulder – gently, reassuringly.

'James,' she says, 'I know he's difficult – but after almost two years, I'm pretty confident I can handle him. I've seen his worst side, and his best for that matter – more often than not. I can honestly tell you that I've _never_ been more sure of _anything_ in my entire life.'

He nods – but doesn't seem convinced.

'I've been considering it since day one,' she continues – gaining his eye contact again, 'well not _marriage_ per se, but I have been considering how I can get him to promise never to give up on us.'

He stares at the carpet again.

'Let me put this in a way you might understand – if you boys were to make one of your bets on this,' she jokes, curling an arm around his shoulder persuasively, 'and you were to take the position that this will last – you'd make a neat little profit.'

An attractive smile breaks across Wilson's face and he chuckles cordially.

Lee smiles too – relieved to have gained his approval.

House crosses the room quickly, approaching the pair, and stops toe to toe with Wilson.

'What's going on?' he asks, suspiciously, narrowing his eyes.

'I'm just trying to convince him to give you away,' Lee says, grinning at the sight of House in his finest garb: dark suit – complete with matching slacks and blazer and ornate silver handled cane.

'You look _divine_,' she says, stepping forward and fitting herself under his free arm.

'Ah, did he give you the: _why are you doing this?_ line of questioning?' House inquires, gazing down at her – smiling with closed lips and a clenched jaw.

She can tell that he is restraining himself – if they were alone together, he would be beaming.

She nods.

'Nice one Jim, attack from both sides,' he says – his eyes never straying from Lee's, 'did our stories match, detective?'

Wilson nods sheepishly.

House lifts his arm over Lee's shoulder, jerks his elbow to shift the cuff of his shirt sleeve, and views his watch.

'Its six thirty now,' he says, 'let's get this show on the road.'

Lee nods once and House turns to the small crowd by the elevator.

'Ah… people we know!' he calls, 'we're going in now.'

………

No vows, no prayers, no veil lifting or other such ceremonious pomp.

It is not suitable – it is not _them_.

A few minutes of paper signing, ring exchange, a long ardent kiss, clapping and cheering, camera's flashing and inconspicuous handholding.

This is them.

She turns the ring on her finger – a plain platinum band. She watches her hands – catches sight of it continually, amused by its novelty and symbolism.

She watches for the glint of his too, as he gestures and shakes others' hands, and opens doors.

………

As a celebratory event, they meet at a restaurant across the street.

As the gather around the table, his mind immediately begins working on the seating arrangements. Ideally, he would like his mother and father at the far end – seated beside one another so that she may keep him in check. He would like Graham seated conveniently between Wilson and Cuddy to buffer any talk of work. More than anything though, he would like Lee directly beside him so that when the party gets louder, the guests become drunker and the conversation becomes duller, she can whisper to him, talk to him, ask him to tell her stories and he can make her laugh. She can entertain him.

He clenches his jaw as he watches Graham spoil his plan by sitting at the far end of the table – in the seat meant for his father. Lee sits near to Blythe, Wilson sits beside Cuddy, and he is seated beside his father.

Reluctantly, he lowers himself into the wide chair – the design of which is apparently inspired by the décor at Caesar's palace. His father initiates a conversation about the weather before cycling though a variety of topics, including the new picket fence and Aunt Sarah's hip replacement. He watches Lee at the end of the table, smiling and laughing with his mother and Cuddy.

Her happiness seems insurmountable, and for a moment he admits to himself that _he_ might be the source of her joy.

She is radiant – dewy skin, flushed cheeks and rose-stained pout.

She catches him watching her and smiles – a smile completely different than the one she displays for anyone else at the table – it is his smile.

He smiles in return before quickly averting his eyes – nervous like a schoolboy, even after all this time.

_Why me? Why did she pick me? Why does she want me?_

He feels guilty, like a fraud… as if the whole thing was a set up… as if he was marrying her just to supply her with a green card.

His father gains his attention again, surprising him by enquiring about Lee in a pleasant tone.

'She seems like a sweet girl,' John says.

'Yeah…' he replies, eyeing his father skeptically, 'she is.'

'She's taking on a lot of baggage for you Greg – that's a heavy burden for such a young woman.'

He inhales deeply, closing his eyes for a moment, attempting to repress the rage. There are many comments swilling through his mind at once – each seemingly contradicting the next: _I know that and it kills me! She can handle it. Keep out of it, old man – what would you know? You're absolutely right._

'You don't know how lucky you are,' his father says, his voice assuming a sing-song quality.

_Fitting,_ House thinks, _after all, he sounds like a broken record_.

House lifts his head abruptly.

'I do,' he says loudly, staring his father directly in the eyes, 'believe me, _I do_.'

'Well you need to relax and act as if you do,' John contends, 'stop behaving as if you have a chip on your shoulder – as if you believe the world is out to get you. You need to take check of what you have and take some responsibility for once. For god's sake boy, _don't_ screw this up.'

House sighs.

_Keep out of it, old man – what would you know? _

_You're absolutely right._

'Yes sir,' he mumbles, before directing his gaze up the table.

'Hey Wilson,' he calls, 'pass the wine – pronto.'

'Actually,' Wilson says, raising his voice as he passes the bottle down the table, 'I'd like to make a toast to the bride and groom.'

Graham cheers at this suggestion, raising his glass, tapping it with a spoon.

'Ah… no,' House groans, dropping his head.

Lee cringes in unison.

'I promise I'll keep it as short, and sap free as possible,' Wilson says, standing.

He clears his throat before beginning.

'Lee – you're the loveliest, breath of fresh air that has ever wafted through the halls of Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. House – you're a pain in the ass…'

A wave of laughter moves over the table and Wilson grins, satisfied with himself.

'And since you've met Lee… you haven't changed a bit. You're every bit as much a pain in the ass – if not a bigger one…'

Silence falls over the table now, and glances of curiosity are exchanged.

'And that's a good thing…' Wilson continues, 'because you're still the House we all know and love… but I know you _have_ changed, I think you've shifted your priorities. I can tell that Lee is the most important thing in the world to you, and that kind of real love makes changes that can't be seen on the surface – and shouldn't have to be seen to be believed, because you two know its there and that's all that matters. So, I wish you all the happiness in the world…'

He raises his glass, and the other guests follow.

'…to Lee and Greg House.'

They gaze at each other across the table, both silenced and affected by their friend's moving tribute.

………

'My steak was overcooked, I only had salad,' House complains as he stands on the curb with Lee, watching their party dissolve, 'I'm hungry.'

'We could get room service at the hotel,' Lee offers.

'I want a Whopper burger,' House announces.

Wilson's silver Volvo 580 rounds the corner, swerves and pulls up neatly at the curb.

House takes Lee's arm and quickly moves back three steps, averting a dry cleaning disaster as the wheels of Wilson's car cause a spray of dirty rainwater to rise from the gutter.

House opens the door for Lee saying to Wilson: 'stop by Burger King on the way to the hotel – there's a good driver,' as he follows her onto the back seat.

'I'm not a taxi service,' Wilson replies.

'You're taxiing us between the restaurant and the hotel – doing us a service, therefore you are a taxi-service. Less talking, more driving.'

Lee drapes herself over House's lap, reaching up to cradle his head urging his face close to hers.

'Hi,' she whispers.

'Hi.'

'Funny,' she says, 'I've barely seen you all day, but apparently we're married.'

'Is _that_ what it was all about?' he jokes, before adding, 'we're alone now.'

'What about him,' Lee whispers, gesturing to their driver.

'Forget him,' House responds, brushing his lips over hers.

She tightens her grip around his neck and crushes her lips against his, initiating a deep kiss.

His hand travels under her dress now, and she giggles rather loudly before emitting a series of helpless sighs and moans.

'Ah! C'mon guys,' Wilson protests, watching in the rear vision mirror.

'Jimmy, eyes on the road you perve,' House says, turning his head to the side.

Lee continues to kiss his neck.

'_I'm_ the perve? You guys are getting it on in the back of my car!'

'Time saver sex,' House replies nonchalantly as Lee continues to work her tongue and lips over his neck, 'by the time we get to the hotel, we'll be done with foreplay and then it's onto the main course.'

'I'll get a ticket if the cops pull me over. Will you just sit back and put your seatbelts on, please.'

'Relax, the cops are not going to pull you over. Besides, you should be flattered, we feel comfortable making out in front of you – it is a sign of the depth of our friendship.'

'What? What sort of logic is that? Seriously I feel like a parent picking up drunken teenagers.'

House laughs dismissively.

'You've gone from perve to prude in a matter of seconds – obviously we're making you uncomfortable.'

'Obviously!' Wilson exclaims.

'We're newlyweds,' House says, 'doesn't that give us the right to get freaky where ever we like?'

'No! Not in the backseat of my car while I'm driving. Was that a zip I heard? Lee, that better not have been a zipper opening.'

'Will you just focus your attention on your duties,' House demands, 'Burger King!'

………

'Anyway,' House says, offering the remains of his burger to Lee – who takes it from him, and disposing of the wrapper in a nearby bin in the foyer of their hotel, 'we've got to go…we've got lots of _newly wed_ stuff to do.'

He gives Wilson an exaggerated wink.

'Thank-you for organising everything for us…' Lee says, stepping forward and kissing Wilson's cheek, before cleaning a mixture of tomato sauce and lipstick from his skin with her thumb.

'Hey,' House says, tugging on her arm, 'this,' he displays his wedding band, 'means I'm the only one who gets sugar.'

'…and for the lovely speech at dinner,' she adds, touching Wilson's shoulder, 'I can't tell you how much we appreciate you.'

House raises his cane, using the rubber tipped end to press the elevator button.

'Time to go,' he says, curling his free arm through hers and pulling her towards the opening doors.

She laughs, feeding the last bite of the burger into her mouth and waving goodbye to Wilson.

'We'll have to get Wilson a gift for taking the liberty to organise our wedding because we were too lazy to do it ourselves,' she sniggers, licking her fingers.

'He invited Cuddy!' he contends, 'he doesn't deserve a gift.'

'She's harmless,' Lee debates, dropping her head to one side.

'And my parents…'

'Actually, I have a confession to make,' she says, crossing the small area of the elevator and sliding an arm around his waist, 'I invited your parents.'

'Well you're much easier to forgive – sure, Wilson has great hair, but you're way cuter.'

'And you have to live with me for the rest of your life,' she adds in a mock ominous tone, with wide eyes.

'Pfft,' he responds, 'I'm not scared of you.'

………

At the door, he pushes her hair out of the way, kisses the back of her neck and fondles her breasts from behind.

'I know I'm supposed to carry you over the threshold…' he says against her neck, 'but I don't think I can manage it.'

They stumble inside and the door slams shut. She manages to switch the light on. He pulls her around to face him, presses her against the door and kisses her messily on the lips.

'…but I could always _fuck_ you on the threshold,' he says, bouncing his eyebrows 'I know it's not the traditional way, but I think it'd be much more fun.'

'Well we do have to consummate this marriage,' she says, 'and you know I've been thinking about _how_, all day… against the door sounds good to me.'

'Right,' he says, pressing his lips to hers again – leaving a series of quick kisses on her mouth, 'I think I can manage _that_ if we have something to lean against…'

She responds by opening her mouth and coaxing his tongue inside, before breaking away from him when she notices a bottle of champagne on the side table with a note.

'Oh, Don Perignon,' she exclaims, lifting the bottle to read the label.

'It's from Wilson,' she says, beginning to open it, 'and it's cold…we better drink it now.'

'No,' he says, 'sex now, champagne later.'

Standing behind her, he sends his hands up her dress.

She peels the foil away, pops the cork and looks around for the kitchenette – realising there isn't one.

'No glasses,' she says, 'oh well.'

She lifts the bottle to her mouth, tips her head back and takes a swig.

'Elegant,' he remarks sarcastically, grinning.

She grins in response, handing the bottle to him. He takes a swig and places it back on the table.

'Lee,' he says seriously, pulling her close and sending his hands on a roaming mission, 'I'm _slightly_ drunk and _remarkably_ horny and I want to have sex with my wife.'

'Oh wait,' she says, struggling out of his hold, pressing two fingers to his greedy lips, 'I have a present for you first.'

'I have a great idea for a present, lose the dress and lie on the bed – we can try out the _bounce_ of this hotel mattress.'

'Darling, I promise you can do whatever you'd like to me, once I give you this…'

'I'll tell you what you can give me…' he jokes, and she shakes her head, laughing, as she moves to the corner of the room where earlier, Wilson had neatly stacked their suitcases – as she had requested.

She produces an item – small and rectangular in shape, wrapped in white iridescent paper and trimmed with a sky blue ribbon. She sits neatly on the corner of the bed, folding her legs under herself and he watches her, head down, eyes narrowed. She takes his hand – her fingers playing with the simple platinum ring and she notes how the ordinarily cold metal band has been warmed by contact with his skin. She urges him to sit beside her on the corner of the bed, places the gift in his lap, slips an arm around his shoulder and kisses his cheek.

'Open,' she says, prodding him.

Slowly, he begins tugging at the ribbon and carefully peeling the tape back, afraid to tear her wrapping.

'Oh just rip it,' she says, giggling, reaching into his lap and tearing the middle seam wide open.

He discards the shell of wrapping paper and ribbon, and turns a dark leather-bound book over in his hands. There is no dust cover, not title, no inscription. He checks the spine, and finds it wordless also.

'What…?' he starts.

She throws the front cover open.

'Us…' she says.

His eyes scan the page.

A photograph.

He barely remembers it being taken.

Him - rolling his eyes to the ceiling, her – laughing with a wide smile, head resting on his shoulder. He reads the words scrawled below.

_He's married._

'What…?' he asks, confused.

'Those were the first words you ever said to me,' she says, laughing, 'in the elevator – you were talking about Wilson.'

He looks at her, amazed.

'What did you say?'

'Nothing – well not to you anyway. Do you know why?'

He waits for the answer.

'I was too shy,' she confesses.

He drops his head, burdened by an onslaught of emotions.

He turns the pages – a chronicle of their relationship. Pictures that he reluctantly posed for then, and is exceedingly grateful for now. In most shots, she is smiling or laughing and his expression is either neutral or comical.

'That's my favourite,' she says, pointing at a blurry shot of them in bed, covers up to their shoulders, him displaying a ridiculously broad smile, pressing his nose against her cheek, her holding the camera up to capture their moment.

The book also contains random quotes of their most enjoyable conversations and play arguments, and souvenirs from their expeditions – an empty sugar satchel to signify their meeting in the coffee shop, a copy of the pink invitation for the opening of Graham's art gallery, a napkin from McDonalds to represent their first 'date,' their plane tickets home from Australia…

'There are plenty more pages,' she says, thumbing through the end of the book, 'we have to fill it.'

He looks at her.

'I…' he starts, 'you… when...?'

She smiles at his expression – wide eyes and mouth.

'I didn't get you anything,' he finally utters, shamefully bowing his head.

'Your reaction is the best present I could hope for,' she says, kissing a trail from his temple to his chin.

'And what do you call this?' she says, displaying her ruby ring, which has migrated to her right hand, enabling her wedding band to take prime position, alone on her left hand.

He moves back on the bed, pulling her with him, kissing her eagerly, in gratitude.

'There's more,' she mutters against his mouth.

He breaks the kiss, allowing her to speak.

'Cuddy has given you two days off work… its not much – you could hardly call it a honeymoon, but with the weekend its four days. We're going to New York tomorrow to watch the Red Sox play.'

'What?!' he exclaims.

She nods.

'You hate baseball,' he says.

'I don't hate it, I'm not particularly fond of it, that's all. But if I'm going with you, I know I'll have a good time.'

He kisses her again.

'Lee,' he says.

'Hmm?'

'I'm glad we did this.'

'Me too.'


	45. XLV Peanuts

**Author's notes:**

I have no idea about baseball, so I had to call in a _gen-u-ine_ American for help on this one. I owe my wonderful beta, and friend: Houseketeer everything (seriously, how am I going to repay you for this?). She gets full credit for writing the baseball section in this chapter (and it's wonderful, might I add). So this chapter is a joint effort by both of us. Thanks honey!!!!!!

Again - I want to thank all of you who are still reading and reviewing! Your lovely comments keep me writing. A special thanks to rebellover for your wonderful, wonderful words (I'm so grateful that you found this fic, and decided to give it a go) and to soleil for requesting a House/Lee pic. But I don't want to play favourites - I'm sincerely thankful to each and every one of my readers... hugs and kisses all round!

* * *

XLV

Peanuts

'_Wwwuuup'_

Subconsciously, she turns in her somnolent state, attempting to escape the sound humming in her ear – like a mosquito.

'_Wacuuuuuuuuuuuup'_

So close – she can _feel it_ reverberating in her ear canal.

'Wwaaycuup'

No luck. It pulls her from her sleep.

'Wake up.'

Her eyes blink open.

He hovers above her, arms straight at either side of her body, supporting his weight. He grins – excited like a child on Christmas morning.

'Hmmm,' she mumbles, 's'time?'

'Seven.'

'_Seven?'_

He nods.

'Gr-e-e-g,' she complains, squeezing her eyes shut to bar the harsh yellow sunlight, and clutching a fistful of his shirt in protest, 'sleep in!'

She rolls on her belly, burying her face in the pillow, but only a second later she feels her body being levitated.

'No sleep ins,' he say, gripping her arms, holding her body upright, 'we're going to see the Red Sox play.'

'Game's not til noon,' she insists.

'I know,' he says, 'but if we leave soon, we can have a late breakfast in my favourite New York diner.'

She opens her eyes wide before blinking repeatedly in an attempt to wake herself. She regards his appearance, his messy hair, sleepy eyes and scruffy three day growth.

'You're yummy in the morning,' she says, slumping forward, draping her arms around his neck, 'I want _you_ for breakfast.'

She manages to place one full wet kiss on his lips before he escapes her.

'You can have me for afternoon tea,' he says, throwing the outfit he has selected for her, onto the bed. Jeans, a basic red tee, a pair of socks, bra and underpants. She notes that he has even managed to select _appropriate_ underwear for the outfit, and the choice of the color of the t-shirt is an obvious one.

………

'What do you think?' he asks, watching Lee slide over the red vinyl seat of a corner booth in _Connie's Diner_.

'I _love_ it,' she says, snatching the laminated menu from its position – propped between the salt and pepper shakers.

'I knew you would,' he responds, fitting his knees under the table and sliding along the padded bench to sit beside her.

She had half expected him to sit opposite her – since it is the most common arrangement when only two people share such a table, but she is glad to feel his arm settling around her shoulders.

A waitress sidles up to their table, beaming a mega-watt smile and flipping her writing pad open.

'Hi,' she says in a tone that is far too cheerful for House's liking.

He reads her nametag.

Miranda.

He nods once and Lee smiles in greeting.

'What would you like?' Miranda asks, clicking her pen.

'_All day breakfast,'_ they respond in unison, however Lee includes a solitary: _'please,'_ that tags along, rather pathetically.

'Oh you guys are so cute!' Miranda exclaims, much to House's disgust.

He wrinkles his nose.

'We're not as cute as we seem,' he responds, 'we're forming an obscure religious sect – I married her so I could sell her into white slavery.'

Miranda blinks her dark rimmed, heavy mascara laden eyes at them.

'We're always on the lookout for new members,' he offers.

Miranda furrows her brow, before her eyes widen in fear.

'Oh, just go get breakfast,' House says, dismissing her with a shooing gesture of the hand.

Their meals arrive and are demolished in good time – lashings of bacon, eggs, hash browns, sausages and tomatoes. Lee voices her approval of the quality of the food and orders a chocolate milkshake and House takes the second straw, lowering the level of the beverage to half in only one long sip. They finish with enough time to walk off their meal, watching street performers before the start of the game.

………

'Here,' House says, dropping a Red Sox cap on Lee's head, before playfully pulling the brim down over her eyes.

'We have to wear these,' he says, 'I think we're in enemy territory.'

He gestures to their immediate neighbours in the stand – the majority of which, on both sides and above and below are adorned in black and white.

She lifts the brim to watch him adjusting an identical cap on his head.

'Miranda was right,' Lee teases, 'we _are_ so cute.'

'Well you're allowed to say that,' House responds, 'but she's not.'

She smiles before plunging her hand into his bag of peanuts.

'You realise you are going to have to commentate for me, the entire time,' she says, 'I've never seen a game of baseball in my life!'

He shakes his head in mock disappointment, awaiting the removal of her hand from the bag, before sending his own in to retrieve a fistful of nuts.

'Right,' he says, 'basic rules…'

At this moment, a woman seated directly in front of them begins barking instructions at her son. House has already decided that he dislikes this woman immensely – a Yankee's fan, and large as life in every possible respect. Her drill sergeant orders drown his voice and he has to pause, awaiting a break in her rant.

'I gather you're aware of the bases,' he says when the woman's voice subsides.

Lee nods.

'Goes up to third base, right?' she says, 'then there is the home run?'

'Yeah, but I thought we'd wait til we get back to he hotel room,' he jokes.

'I walked right into that one didn't I?'

'Yep,' House responds, grinning, before throwing a peanut into the air and catching it precisely in his mouth, 'nothing like a sports, sex metaphor – it's the little things in life that make me happy.'

'Right, you're all about the little things.'

'So,' House continues, 'let's talk strikes…' only to be rudely interrupted by the mother once more.

'Billy!' she screams at the side of her son's head.

'Now…three strikes…'

'Billy!'

'…and you're…'

'BILLY!'

'OUT! Damn it!' House exclaims.

'Billy!' he shouts, pelting a peanut at the boys head, 'get that damn iPod out of your ears and listen to Sergent mom!'

The boy turns, sheepishly eyeing House before turning to his mother.

'Did you just throw a peanut at my son's head?' the woman demands.

House shrugs. 'Got his attention didn't it? Far more effective that your efforts.'

'Don't you do that again!' Sergent mom growls, stabbing a finger at House.

'Yes sir!' he responds with a salute.

………

'We have this game _locked up_,' he says, leaning into Lee so that she can smell his peanut breath, and hear his munching in her ear.

'And that's good?' she asks, wide eyed, clueless.

'That is fucking brilliant. See, bottom of the ninth, we're up by two, two outs, full count. One more out and we win, which means that this could be our game winning pitch.'

'Uh huh,' she nods, slowly comprehending, 'cool!'

House observes the umpire's gesture and is already standing before the scoreboard has recorded the ball. 'No, that was a perfect strike.' The gentleness and lack of anger in his voice betrays the depth of his disappointment.

Sergent mom smells vulnerablility and spins in her seat. 'It was a ball, we all saw it. You and your red sox are going down.'

'It was a STRIKE, and if you got your face out of your NACHOS for a moment you would have seen that. Who buys nachos for their kids at a ballgame anyway, what happened to the classics?'

'Well I guess you _daughter_ here bought her classic old man some classic peanuts, you've been throwing them around all day.'

Lee makes a grab for his arm, but it's too late. House reaches into his jumbo bag, raining peanuts down on Sergent mom, chanting 'Yankees SUCK. Yankees SUCK!' and causing an uproar from the immediate crowd.

He is interrupted by a firm tap on the shoulder.

'Come with me please sir,' the burly security officer snarls.

Before House has a chance to respond, the man grips his arm and pulls him to his feet.

'Hey!' Lee protests against the security guards forcefulness.

'You're with him?' the guard asks.

'Yes I am,' Lee announces proudly.

'Then you're out too.'

'Gladly,' she says, gathering their belongings – backpacks and his cane, before the security guard snatches her arm also.

'Hey, get your hands off her!' House demands, 'you don't need to _escort_ us out – we'll leave quietly.'

This event causes a cheer from the surrounding Yankees fans.

The security guard disposes them at the exit and House turns to shout a final, departing: 'Yankees SUCK!'

………

They watch the rest of the game in a sports bar across the street. The television coverage is focusing on the game-deciding call that prompted their ejection.

The commentators' words are being loudly seconded by House.

'_So here's the replay again on what we'll say is a questionable call. Well, more than questionable really. Full count, two outs two on, bottom of the ninth. The Sox have got to figure they have this one locked up. Here's the pitch, and I think you'll agree this one is clearly in the strike zone. Here it is from another angle…that's strike three. What was this guy thinking? So that walk loaded the bases, three Yankee runs in the ninth, and now in extra-innings the Yankees are running this ballgame.'_

'Damn it – you were right!' Lee exclaims smugly, 'you're always fucking right!'

'You sound… _proud_.'

'I am,' she nods.

'I think this is the first time in history, anyone has been proud of another person for having them _thrown out_ a of baseball game.'

'Well I am,' she insists, 'I'm as proud as punch.'

He smiles.

'Let's get out of here.'

………

'What else are we going to do?' he asks, slumping into the chair inside the door of their hotel room.

She raises her eyebrows suggestively, and her hand settles on his crotch.

'What else do people do on their honeymoon?' she says.

'Hmm,' he mumbles, 'three days, rolling around in bed, non-stop sex… that sounds like a couple trying for a baby.'

She retracts her hand.

'I'm on the pill, Greg,' she says firmly.

He takes her hand and returns it to position.

'So stop taking it.'

She sighs and removes her hand once more before turning from him.

'Hey,' he says quietly, standing close behind her.

He touches her shoulders and suddenly frigid, her body tenses in response.

'Lee, turn around,' he commands, applying gentle pressure with a squeeze of his hands.

She complies.

He raises an eyebrow before dropping his hands and taking the hem of her t-shit. Carelessly, he pulls the shirt over her head, and discards it on the floor. His hands cradle her jaw and he swoops to kiss her softly, before releasing her – causing her head to nod upon losing its support. He reaches down to pop the top button of her jeans, and easing the zip open.

'Lie down,' he instructs.

She lies on the bed and lifts her hips to assist him in peeling her jeans away.

'Sit up,' he requests.

Arms around her, he unclasps her sensible, seamless black bra and tosses it over his shoulder, before urging her to lie down again, sending his hands over her thighs, and disposing of her sensible black thong in the same manner.

'Aren't you going to take _your_ clothes off?' she inquires as he positions himself above her.

'No,' he replies, 'I just want to look at you.'

He leans down to kiss her gently, once, twice. He touches her belly symbolically.

'I want to get you pregnant,' he says.

'I noticed,' she scoffs.

His expression is serious.

'I know what you're doing,' she says, 'you're beautiful, you know that?'

His chin propped on her belly, his gaze is fixed, unwavering. His eyes are locked with hers.

'You're so beautiful,' she continues, 'that I want to give you everything within my power.'

'But?'

'But,' she repeats, 'a baby? Greg, I don't really believe that _you_ want a baby.'

He sits up.

'Why not?' he asks.

'Wait, lets take a step back,' she says, 'lets start with: _why?_'

She is not surprised to find him timid at the posing of this question. He turns away from her.

'You were pregnant before...' he says quietly.

She narrows her eyes, thinking. 'Are you saying this because of the miscarriage, because you think I want to replace the baby?'

He shakes his head.

He turns back to her and playfully knocks her knees together before parting them, and placing a kiss on the crease beside her left knee.

'Greg, that was different… when I got pregnant, it was…'

'An accident?'

She does not like the word. 'A fluke…' she says, 'it just happened.'

'But you were going to go though with it.'

'Well, yeah, but it was not something I had ever planned for… I just… I never imagined… I never wanted… and I was certain _you_ never wanted…'

'You're not beautiful,' he says.

She raises a brow, 'do you want to get laid or what?'

'You're not beautiful,' he repeats, kissing the inside of her thigh, 'because the word just doesn't cut it. Nor does, pretty…'

'Now you're avoiding the subject…' she interjects.

He kisses her thigh again, 'gorgeous,' and again, 'stunning,' and again.

He raises his head, 'I could go on listing ineffectual adjectives,' he says, 'but I'm running out of kissing space before I reach my target, so my point is – they'd have to invent a whole new adjective just to describe you,' and with that, his head returns between her thighs and his tongue lashes out, lapping boldly at her clit.

Every muscle in her body tenses and she coils off the bed, gasping as if in pain and clawing at his shoulders.

He raises his head again, 'too much too soon?' he asks.

'Maybe,' she says, 'but god I love it when you do that.'

He smiles, 'want me to hold off a bit?' he asks.

She nods.

'When I found out that you were pregnant,' he says, returning to the subject, 'that you _had been_ pregnant… I was… I wanted…'

She digs her elbows into the mattress, manoeuvring herself down the bed, meeting him face to face and kissing him quiet, because she cannot bear to hear him say that he wanted the child.

She holds him tightly, feeling the fabric of his clothing against his naked body.

'Are you scared?' he asks, 'do you worry about having another miscarriage?'

'A little,' she says, and he gives her a doubtful expression.

'Ok,' she admits, 'a lot.'

'I think you want this too,' he says, and she laughs in admission.

At this, his fingers slip between her thighs and she gasps again as he begins stroking her clit.

'Greg,' she says, 'you don't even like my dog.'

'_Our_ dog,' he corrects her, 'and I like him just fine – I let him sleep on the end of our bed when he was scared of that storm, and I've fed him a few times.'

'You have,' she agrees.

'You know,' he says, changing the subject again, 'after two years, and considering the regularity with which we have sex, the novelty still hasn't worn off. I won't ever get bored of you. Last week, while I was overseeing a patient's cat scan, I got hard thinking of you… do you know what I was thinking about?'

'What?'

'That face you pull when you watch _Deal or no Deal_.'

She giggles.

'Really,' he says, 'I can't help it – the way you furrow your brow when the guy won't take the deal – it's just like your orgasm face.'

At this, he slips two fingers inside her and begins pumping them in and out.

'Mmm!' she exclaims, 'now you're just trying to sweet talk me!'

'No I'm serious,' he says, 'and I'm serious about this baby thing.'

His thumb finds her clit and his fingers continue working, causing her to thrash about, sighing and clamping her thighs shut on his hand.

'Greg, open you pants,' she commands.

He sits back and complies with her request.

'Touch yourself,' she says, biting her lip.

He dips two fingers inside her again, wetting them to lubricate his movements as he begins stroking his cock.

'_Oh my god,'_ she gasps, 'come here.'

She parts her legs as he positions himself above her. He lowers his body and pushes into her with a precise thrust of his hips – causing her to arch back and grant him easier entrance. He opens his mouth on hers – initiating a deep, wet, tangle of tongues – and she comes at this sensation, contracting around his erection with his steady first strokes. She sends her hands down his sides, gripping the hem of his shirt and pulling it up – needing to feel more of his bare skin against hers. She hears the gentle slap of his belly against hers and she smiles to herself as she folds her arms and legs around his body. He comes inside her, shuddering and moaning in pleasure, and for the first time, she is considering the significance of this.

He attempts to roll off of her, but she holds him firmly in place.

'Just stay still for a moment,' she says.

'I'm too heavy,' he protests.

'No you're not,' she insists.

'You know what I think is really beautiful?' she says wistfully, playing with his hair.

'What?' he asks.

'A little burst of pleasure marked the beginning of life for every one of us.'

He raises his head.

'You're a fucking hippy,' he jokes.

She giggles.

'I'm going to think about the baby thing,' she says, 'ok?'

He blinks, before a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.

'Ok.'


	46. XLVI Testdrive

**A/N**

Thanks to my delightfully lovely Beta: Houseketter for all of her wonderful praise and positive reinforcement!

Thanks to everyone who is still reading and reviewing - I am so grateful, I couldn't hope for a more fabulous group of readers!

Oh, and if you wanna check out another fab OFC fic, you should read: 'Emotional Baggage,' by Hallow Needle. So far there is only one short chapter, but it's a good one, so fingers crossed for more...

* * *

XLVI - Test-drive

-

Come make me whole,

Body and soul

-

Pure Pleasure Seeker, Moloko

The incessant beep of his alarm.

The nastiest, most offensive, most irritating, most haunting sound in the world.

He had contemplated purchasing a stereo alarm – pop in your favourite CD, set the time and you will be gently awoken by the dulcet sounds of a full symphony.

He had decided against this however. He had decided he would prefer not to associate the sometimes excruciatingly painful experience of waking, with Bach or Beethoven, and risk developing an intense hatred of his favourite composers.

He rolls, sits and waits for a moment, rubbing his thigh – urging it to cooperate, warming up for the big walk to the bathroom. Finally, he stands.

His departure causes her to groan a prolonged: _'hmmmmmmm,' _and her arm stretches to his side of the bed, her hand creeping like a spider across the wrinkled sheets in search of his body.

He smiles, watching the hand admit defeat, collapsing flat on the mattress.

She lays sprawled on her belly and from under the curtain of her ginger tresses, she emits a disappointed _harrumph_.

He finds himself having to lift the hand and kiss its soft white skin, and her fingers grip his tightly in response. Four fingers – one of which sports a shiny band.

The ring.

She hadn't removed it since he had slid it over her knuckle and fixed it place. She hadn't removed it to shower, to wash her face, to apply make-up or moisturiser or sunscreen, she hadn't even removed it to clean the dishes.

He had removed his on the first night, and placed it on the soap tray beside the bathroom basin. Then he had realised that hers had become a permanent fixture on her hand – it wasn't an ordinary piece of jewellery to be removed regularly – it had become a _part_ of her. Since that moment he had resolved to do the same.

………

'I have a wife,' he states plainly.

'I know,' Wilson responds from his position: perched uncomfortably on the edge of the wooden seat, opposite House's desk, 'I was there when you _acquired_ her.'

'I have a wife,' House repeats, 'and _you_ don't.'

Wilson sighs.

'_Crazy_ world isn't it!' House teases.

Wilson responds by folding his arms at his chest.

'She made this fucking fantastic salad last night,' he continues, holding his lunch out for Wilson to inspect, 'and packed it for my lunch – why didn't you tell me just how great this marriage thing is?'

Wilson stares at the ceiling.

'Oh don't cry Jim, you'll find Mrs Right someday.'

'Funny you should say that actually…' Wilson starts, uncrossing his legs and leaning closer.

'Ah, you've been chasing skirt down at the nurses' station again?'

'She's an anaesthesiologist,' Wilson corrects House, 'we've been on two dates.'

'Has she put out yet?'

'House! No!'

'Hey, that's an important question…'

'That's a personal question!'

'Personal questions are my forte, I'm a doctor.'

'No, you're just _House_.'

'So when's the big night? How long do kids wait these days? I thought it was sex on the second date…'

'It's not like that, I actually _like_ her…'

'Uh huh, and you thought you _actually liked_ Linda, and Lucy and Kay, and Julie, and cancer girl.'

Wilson clenches his jaw.

'What's her name?' House asks.

'Helen. And I was going to ask if you and Lee would like to have dinner with us, but now I'm not so sure. Maybe I should just ask Lee.'

'Nope – we come as a package deal these days – you want one, you get the other as a bonus. Besides, if she goes out with you guys, what am I supposed to do?'

Wilson rolls his eyes. 'Get yourself a hobby perhaps. Ok, it's this Saturday night. I'll make reservations.'

He smiles to himself, shifting on the low, cushioned bench in the lobby, leaning his head against the wall.

She bends to sign for a package at the front desk, the curve of her hips outlined perfectly by the tight tweed material of her pencil skirt.

He inhales a deep breath, and exhales it through pursed lips, so that a shrill whistle disturbs the hustle and bustle of the hospital's foyer.

A wolf whistle.

'_Nice_ ass!' he shouts, using his cane as leverage, standing.

All heads whip around to locate the perpetrator.

The women stare with a crazed, affronted _'how dare you?'_ expression.

The men stare with a befuddled, dazed, _'how does he get away with that?'_ expression.

Lee stares with an embarrassed, amused, yet affable expression.

He makes a beeline for her, aware of his audience.

Standing directly behind her, his free hand slips down and his fingers sink into her soft derrière.

Mouth gaping, the head receptionist is knocked for six as her eyes follow the path of House's wayward hand.

'Sure gave em something to look at, huh?' he whispers.

Lee chuckles and covers her eyes.

Grinning, he saunters into the open elevator, and waggles his brow at her as the doors close him in.

……….

He arrives home from work, lifts his key to the doorknob and pauses when he hears unfamiliar sounds emanating from inside.

Grunts and shouts and high pitched squeals…

He opens the door cautiously, peering in.

She sees this and greets him.

'We've got company,' she says, grinning mischievously.

He opens the door wider to reveal two small creatures bouncing on his leather sofa.

She turns away from him.

'Boys, please don't jump on the couch,' she calls, 'come here.'

Amazingly, the children comply with this instruction.

'Oh, we had twins!' he exclaims, 'I must be suffering from amnesia, I remember the conversations about trying for a baby, but I don't remember the conception, the birth, or the first… appears like: five years of their lives.'

'We're babysitting for my friend Anne,' she says, 'thought we could try before we buy.'

The children are now standing by her side. She kneels at their height.

'Jacob, Timothy, this is Greg,' she says.

'Hi,' House says hesitantly.

'Hi,' one of the boys says.

'What's that?' the other says, pointing to his cane.

'This,' House says, lifting the cane, 'is my child beating stick.'

Lee raises her eyebrows. 'Great start.'

This does not seem to bother the child. Instead, he turns and launches himself at the couch, resuming his bouncing activity.

'Oh,' she says, turning back to House, 'Jacob has Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder.'

'Great.'

'Jacob, please stop jumping on the couch!' she calls to the boy, 'go and get the DVDs your mom packed for you.'

……….

'_They're finally asleep,'_ she whispers, tiptoeing into the kitchen to find House cleaning mashed potato from the walls.

'Well this _is_ fun,' he announces, turning his attention to the creamy mash oozing down the door of the refrigerator.

'Be fair,' she says, 'you started the food fight, and it was fun while it lasted.'

He laughs, limping to the sink, bowl and cloth in hand.

She joins him, hugging him from behind as he rinses the bowl.

He turns, holding her and smiling as he removes mushed peas from her hair.

'I know what you're up to,' he says, 'you're trying to put me off…'

'Mmm hmm,' she grins, 'did it work?'

'Nope.'

'No?'

'No. Our kid is not going to be like _that_,' he says.

'Right,' she says, 'and _that's_ the sentiment that keeps the human race alive.'

He smiles again. 'You're pretty with peas in your hair.'

'I know what _you're_ up to,' she announces as he stoops to kiss her lips, 'you're trying to distract me with your charm.'

'Mmm hmm,' he mumbles in between kisses, 'did it work?'

'Nope.'

His hands cradle her face and he initiates a deeper kiss.

They are interrupted by a small voice at in the doorway.

'Whadda ya doin?'

Timothy, the less monstrous of the two has woken from his sleep.

'Grown up things. We're playing mommies and daddies,' House responds, 'ask your parents about the birds and the bees – I'm collecting her pollen.'

Timothy appears bemused for a moment, before announcing, 'I peed on the couch.'

Lee cringes, and House's jaw drops.

'That's ok honey,' Lee says feebly, 'we'll get it cleaned up.'

………

'You summoned me, oh Queen of Darkness…?' House quips, striding into Cuddy's office.

With a heavy sigh, Cuddy stands behind her desk.

'What's this I hear about you sexually harassing a female staff member in full view of patients, important hospital visitors and the general public in the lobby?'

'Hmm, that female staff member is usually you, but I don't remember glancing at your chest and asking you if it's cold out, recently. Jealous?'

'This was far worse than the sort of flirty innuendo you use with me,' Cuddy responds, 'according to the official complaint…'

'Official complaint,' House scoffs, rolling his eyes.

'According to the official complaint, filed by the member of the administrative staff who witnessed the event,' Cuddy continues, 'you whistled at the woman in question, before commenting: _nice ass_, and then you proceeded to grope said body part.'

House laughs.

'Please tell me this isn't true,' Cuddy appeals to him.

'It's true,' he states, causing Cuddy to further exaggerate her expression of disapproval, 'but _said woman_, was my wife.'

'You think that makes it ok?'

'Sure, its not harassment if the target is permissive.'

'_I don't care_ _who_ you groped House – you don't do it in the foyer of my hospital! Jesus! What is this? Your crazy twisted way of announcing your marriage to your colleagues?'

'Hmm, I didn't think of it that way – but that works,' House says, backing out of Cuddy's office, 'be a sweetie and send a memo to clear it all up, would you?'

………

'Do you think it's safe to go down yet?' House asks, swerving to catch the cashew that Lee had fetched from her bag of mixed nuts and tossed high into the air for him.

'I don't know, how long has it been?' she asks, feeding herself an almond.

'Ah, about an hour,' House says, glancing at his watch.

'Peanut,' he requests.

Lee rummages through the bag, retrieves a peanut and tosses it for him to catch.

'Assuming Cuddy had the memo delivered right away,' he says, 'and the head receptionist wasted no time spreading the goss to the nurses in the clinic – I'd say the news would have reached my team by now, but it's best to give them another…. Ooo, I'd say half an hour at least, just to let it really sink in.'

'I knew I'd find you two hiding up here…' Wilson says, stepping out onto the roof of the hospital.

'Great,' House says, moving to sit beside Lee, snatching the bag of nuts from her, 'here's our messenger. What's it like down there Jim, has the news spread like wild fire?'

'You and your ego,' Wilson scoffs.

'The good news is,' he continues sarcastically, 'even after the shock of this announcement, the hospital is still functioning – ventilators and life support machines are still running, surgeons are still operating…'

House throws a handful of nuts at Wilson.

'I had to fend off a few questions from your team,' Wilson says more seriously, seating himself beside Lee, 'Chase was surprised, Cameron was curious, and Forman didn't bat an eyelid – he said you are _predictably unpredictable_, and went on reading his journal.'

House laughs at this.

'So do you think it's safe to go down?' he asks.

'I'd say give it another half an hour,' Wilson replies, reaching across Lee and dipping his hand into the bag of nuts.

'We can do that.'

'Did he tell you about the date on Saturday night?' Wilson asks, facing Lee.

'No,' Lee mumbles, munching on a mouthful of cashews, 'date?'

Wilson blushes and scoffs his shoes against the asphalt before answering.

'I've been seeing this woman, and it's kinda serious…'

'Really? That's great! When do we get to meet her?'

'Saturday night, if you're free?'

'We sure are,' Lee says, grinning and nudging House, who forces a smile before feeding himself another handful of nuts.

………

Four hours subsequent to the revelation and the aftershock, House continues to hide out, skulking through each wing of the hospital, yet to face his team, content with his new excuse to avoid work. He finds himself in the obstetrics and gynaecology wing, watching the newborn babies squirm in their swaddling clothing, like little cocooned caterpillars.

He has an idea.

He examines each of the babies from his position behind the glass, as if he is a gemmologist, searching for the most beautiful, flawless gem.

He makes his selection, a girl child with rosy cheeks, and a tuft of white blonde hair.

The face of an angel.

He watches the nurses conversing at their station, oblivious to his presence.

He makes his move, stealthily entering the nursery and scooping the sleeping child out of her crib. Conveniently, she fits along one of his arms, so he is able to use his cane without hassle, slipping quickly and quietly from the room.

He takes refuge in a vacant recovery suite, and pages Lee, watching the child at all times, careful not to wake or distress her.

He listens for the click of Lee's shoes. She is wearing cork healed platform stilettos today – he knows the distinctive sound.

'Pssst,' he whispers as he spies her approaching, her brow furrowed, looking around in confusion.

She sees him peeking out from behind the door.

'Come here,' he says, motioning with his head.

'What, where?' she inquires.

'In here,' he whispers, reaching out to take her hand.

'Greg, what are you up to?'

He pulls her into the room and gently closes the door.

'Are we allowed to be in here?' she asks hesitantly.

'Yeah, sure… the mother is a patient of mine.'

He gestures to the baby sleeping in a plastic hospital crib.

'Then where is she?'

'Surgery.'

'And the baby has been left alone?'

'Nah, she was with a nurse, who stepped out for a bit and left me to watch her,' he says, hooking his cane over the crib and gently lifting the tiny baby.

'That was a lie wasn't it?' she says.

'Yeah, but look at the baby… how cute etcetera…'

Standing beside him, Lee smiles, curling an arm around his waist.

He smiles back at her.

'You want to hold her?' he asks.

'Are you sure…?'

Before she has finished asking her question, he has arranged the baby in her arms.

Eyes wide, she freezes, holding the child awkwardly, obviously afraid to drop her.

'Relax,' he says.

She gently adjusts the child in her arms, looking down.

'Oh, she is beautiful,' she whispers softly.

'Want one?' he asks, with raised eyebrows.

'Well not this one obviously…'

She meets his gaze and opens her mouth to speak again, but is interrupted by the sound of his beeper.

'Duty calls, hey' she says, carefully passing the baby back to him, 'you'd better get this little girl back to wherever she belongs.'

With a kiss on his lips, she leaves the room.

………..

His return to the nursery is marked by drama.

Three angry nurses, and two angry parents.

'She went blue,' House announces, surrendering the child to the mother, 'I'm a doctor… lucky I was here to save the day…'

The parents regard one another before casting a questioning glance back at House.

'She's gonna be fine,' he reassures them, 'don't thank me, it's just what I do…'

He turns and leaves abruptly to avoid further interrogation.

………

On his journey back to his office, he hears the inevitable.

'House!'

He quickens his pace, limping faster.

'House!'

He hears the click of the administrator's ridiculously high heels – faster, matching his speed.

'House!'

Cuddy snags his arm and spins his body, demanding his attention.

'Did you kidnap a baby from the nursery?'

'_No_, kidnapping is a crime. I borrowed her.'

'For what intent and purpose? Please don't tell me you were seeking out another guineapig for one of your little experiments?'

'You could say that.'

'Oh my god, what did you do?'

'Relax, I just showed it to Lee.'

'You stole a baby from…'

'Borrowed.'

'You borrowed a baby from the nursery to show your wife! Well I'm not even going to ask why, all I can say is that I thought marriage would have changed you for the better – but ever since you got back, you've been creating even more havoc with Dr Emerson as your partner in crime.'

'Ah, that's Doctor _House,_' he corrects her, 'there are two of us now… twice the fun!'

He waggles his brow before palming two Vicodin and leaving Cuddy standing in the hall – and expression of sheer terror tainting her lovely features.


	47. XLVII Naked

So sorry for the delay, but here is the new chap...

Thanks to everyone who is still reading/reviewing, your lovely comments mean so much to me!

My wonderful beta and besty, Houseketeer, made stunning House/Lee icons and banners for me, I absolutely adore them (and her) and you can check them out at my LiveJournal site (under naïve eve).

This chapter is dedicated to surferosa. You're beautiful and unique. Extraordinary. You don't realise how special you are!

xoxo

* * *

XLVII - Naked

Making his way to the handicap bay in the undercover car park, the rubber soles of his sneakers padding softly over the cement, he feels his cell phone vibrating in his pocket and smiles.

He flips it open and raises to his ear without checking the screen to read the identity of the caller.

He knows who it is.

"Hey," he says warmly.

"I'm going to be late," she says, "when I get home, I want to find you naked, in bed. See you at around eight."

He slips his phone back into his pocket, grinning to himself.

………

She arrives home at a quarter past eight to find him reclining in their bed, under the covers. She grins at him from the doorway as she kicks off her shoes.

"Hi."

"Hi."

She pops the button in the centre of her form fitting, tailored jacket, shrugs it from her shoulders and tosses it onto the arm chair in the corner of the room. Her grin widens as she crawls across the bed, meeting him face to face. She kisses him once on the mouth before pulling the covers back and peeking underneath, eyeing his naked body.

"Mm, just as I ordered," she says approvingly, kissing him again, "you're so whipped."

Hands on her shoulders, he pushes her to lie on her back beside him, hastily unbuttoning her blouse and pulling it aside to expose her bra. He places a series of wet sucking kisses over her neck, before moving lower, scraping his stubble over her bare shoulder. She feels a sharp pang contrasting with the soft gentle wetness of his tongue.

"Ow…!" she exclaims, "did you just bite me?"

She is laughing.

He looks up at her, grinning. "Yep."

"Do it again. I like it."

He complies, gently biting her shoulder again and she giggles as he tugs her bra strap aside. He is disappointed to find that her breasts are still enclosed in the cups of her bra.

Examining the lavender satin and black lace he guesses that this tiny scrap of lingerie is obscenely expensive. He had taken much joy in riffling through her underwear drawer and had become proficient in naming the brands.

"Victoria's Secret?" he asks.

She shakes her head, grinning in amusement.

He furrows his brow and sighs in defeat.

"Pleasure State," she says.

"Oh!" he responds, running his thumb over the exposed skin of the curve of her supple left breast, "aptly named."

"Take it off," he grunts, "take all of your clothes off."

He sends his hands down her body, searching for the zip of her skirt.

"Kidnapping that baby caused something of an uproar," she says, watching him shimmy her skirt down over her hips.

She reaches behind to unclasp her bra.

"I didn't kidnap, I borrowed," he says hooking his fingers behind the waistband of her panties and delighting in the sight of the satin material (already damp) bunching and rolling in transition down her perfectly soft thighs.

"What sort of uproar?" he asks.

He reaches up to cup her small breast and marvels at the way it fits perfectly into the palm of his hand. Creamy skin, perfect pink nipple. He places a trail of kisses over her cleavage.

"Cuddy pulled me aside and gave me a talking to," she says, "I think she expects that I should have you on a leash or something."

He lifts his head. Her chest glistens with wet kisses. He admires his work before looking at her. "A leash? Kinky! Well, I'm up for trying new things in the bedroom if you are."

"Well anyway," she says, stifling a giggle, "that was one of the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me."

"You know me…" he says, "romantic is my middle name. Open your legs."

Giggling, she rolls her eyes and complies with his request: parting her legs slightly for him. He sends his warm hand down, flattening his palm on the inside of her thigh, pushing it gently towards the mattress, parting her legs further.

"You're really serious about this baby thing, huh?" she asks, raising her voice inquisitively.

"That is the message I have been broadcasting – yes."

Using his index finger he begins gently exploring her folds.

"Ugh…" she moans, before catching her breath, "why?"

When he doesn't respond, she asks again: "Why?"

Suddenly, she has his attention – blue eyes fixed on hers, his fingers paused inside her.

"Because no one thinks I can – including _you_."

He says this accusingly, coldly.

"Greg," she says, "I know you can do _anything_, as long as you _want_ to. I think you would make a wonderful father – _if_ you wanted to."

"Then I want to."

"So far, the only argument you have put forth is that you want to prove people wrong – it's appealing to you because it's anomalous."

"Nope, that's not it."

"Then what is it?"

"I want the chance to do a better job than my father did."

He says it straight out – bluntly, but it is the deepest confession he has made to another soul, and perhaps even to his own soul.

He is naked.

Timidly, he dips his head to kiss her belly. He begins working his fingers again, and his attention is caught by a faint smattering of freckles around her navel.

He smiles to himself.

_What if this spray of freckles corresponds to a galaxy of stars?_ _She certainly doesn't seem to be of this world._

"Are you an extraterrestrial princess?" he says, and her eyes flick open.

"What?" she laughs.

"You have a little galaxy of freckles here, I think it's an intergalactic map."

She laughs loudly until he moves his head between her thighs and complements the thrusting of his fingers with a bold lap of his tongue over her clit and she gasps – her body shuddering involuntarily.

"Greg," she sighs, "I think we should do it."

He raises his head. "Duh!"

"No," she says, "I mean, I think we should try for a baby."

His eyes widen.

"Seriously?"

She nods. "I stopped taking the pill."

"You did? You had already decided?"

"Yes."

"Then what was with the interrogation?"

"I still needed to hear a valid reason."

"What was it? What made you decide?"

"It was the baby. When I saw you holding her…"

This news obviously excites him because he moves up her body, sliding his rigid cock into her and kissing her open mouth in a series of swift, seamless movements. He begins thrusting hard and fast – but he never fucks her carelessly, his rhythm is always delicious, always varied, always breathtaking.

"Wow," she exclaims when his lips break from hers for a moment, "who ever thought the notion of pregnancy could get a guy so hot!"

"Totally," he grunts, offering her a slight nod as he continues to labour above her, "it's a caveman thing – a biological drive… I have a young fertile female in my possession…"

"…in your possession hey?" she interrupts with a laugh.

"Yeah, it's only natural that I should want to impregnate you."

She laughs again, "…only natural."

"Shhh," he says, "stop laughing, I'm trying to concentrate."

He emphasises this statement by kissing her mouth and swivelling his hips – steadying his thrusts and reducing her utterances to mere muffled moans.

He rests his head beside hers, his forehead cushioned by the pillow, because he likes to feel her wet lips and hot breath on his ear as she sighs and groans helplessly.

"…_Greg…"_

He feels her contracting around his erection, tight and hot and he watches her face in awe: eyes clenched shut, the little crinkle on her brow, and he comes at the sight and feel of her orgasm.

………

"This baby making thing is going to be great fun," he says, lying beside her, "we have to do it non-stop, at least twice a day – morning and night…maybe we should take some time off work, we didn't have a proper honeymoon…"

"Oh yeah," she retorts, "that will go down really well with Cuddy: _we need two weeks off work so we can screw our brains out_."

She laughs and rolls on her side before attempting to sit, but his firm grip on her slender arm holts her.

"No, don't get up and walk around…" he says, "just lie there, we don't want gravity interfering with our plans."

"You're not serious are you?" she says, "you're a doctor, you know that stuff is expelled with such force that gets more than a fair chance to do its job."

"Well, in order to optimise our chances…"

She shakes her head. "Greg… we're not going to become one of _those_ couples who schedule sex by cycle and all that, are we?"

"Whatever it takes," he says.

………

They wait on the curb for a taxi, and he slips an arm around her shoulder as she shivers in the crisp evening air.

"Start thinking of excuses for us to leave early, so we can go home and screw," he whispers in her ear.

The sensation of his breath and the sound of his voice in her ear causes her to shudder and she has to take a moment before responding.

"No, we have to stay, this date is important to Wilson – we could be meeting his future wife."

Lee waves and the yellow vehicle pulls up to the side walk. House opens the door for her and follows her onto the back seat before slamming the door.

"I don't like sharing you," he whispers, his hand dipping under her skirt, his fingers trekking a path up her inner thigh. His nose is nudging her cheek and she realises he is in a clingy, cuddly mood – which she adores, but the mood always seems to have its onset at the most inappropriate times.

………

Helen is a tall thin woman, neat and plain with a short haircut: light brown, no highlights, no pretentious style: no flicks or layers. She has a warm friendly smile and a soft voice.

House whispers to Lee that Wilson has "dropped his standards," but Lee thinks the more appropriate term is: "matured in taste."

They exchange pleasantries (unpleasantries on House's part), settle at their table and Wilson orders a bottle of white wine.

"Would you like a drink, Lee?" Wilson asks, lifting the bottle and holding it out for her.

"No thanks," she replies politely.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm fine thanks."

"You're catching a cab home, you could have one glass," Wilson insists.

"I'd rather not."

"Oh, come on, just one!"

"She said NO," House snaps, "drop it."

Wilson's eyes widen and he replaces the bottle on the table. "Okay…"

Lee looks at House, House looks at Wilson, Wilson looks at Helen.

"So how long have you two been together?" Helen asks, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

"About two years," Lee says.

House points to Lee. "Australian. I married her as a favor, so she could stay in the country."

Helen raises her eyebrows, arranges her lips in the shape of and O and turns to Wilson who shakes his head.

"No, it's legit," Wilson says, "remember what I told you, you can only believe approximately thirty per cent of what House says."

"Ah come on," House retorts, "it's at least fifty fifty."

………

After dessert, Helen excuses herself from the table, indicating a trip to the ladies room. As soon as she rounds the corner, Wilson turns to Lee, covering her hand with his.

"What do you think?" he asks eagerly.

"She's lovely," Lee says, smiling.

"She's no Lee," House scoffs.

"Greg!" Lee exclaims, punching House playfully, before waiting until Wilson has turned his head in order to reward House with a kiss on the cheek.

"Let's just say, she has more up top then your last two wives," House says, "and I'm not talking about her cup size."

"So I have your approval?" Wilson asks, his voice low, assuming as sarcastic tone.

"Yep," House responds, "just get her to sign a pre-nup."

………

Upon his request, Lee agrees to meet Wilson at the cafe outside the hospital the following afternoon.

"I wanted to hear what you thought about Helen," Wilson says, "without the background noise of House's sarcastic comments and sexist jokes."

"Honestly," Lee says, "from our meeting last night, I can tell that she is friendly, genuine…"

"I'm going to ask her to marry me," Wilson spits.

"Ah…" Lee starts, only to be interrupted by the waitress appearing behind her left shoulder, requesting their order.

"Two coffees. One black, two sugars and one white, no sugar," Wilson says quickly, obviously dismissing the woman, who scribbles the order on a hand held pad of paper.

"No," Lee says, "one coffee, he'll have the white, no sugar and I'll have tea please."

"I thought you liked black coffee," Wilson says, flashing Lee a look.

"I don't drink coffee," Lee responds.

"You don't? You did last week."

"Well I don't anymore."

"So all of a sudden, you don't drink coffee, you don't drink alcohol… what's going on?"

"Nothing."

"Can I get your order?!" the waitress demands, huffing audibly.

"We'll have what she said," Wilson says, turning back to Lee.

The waitress mumbles a rude comment under her breath before returning inside.

Wilson narrows his eyes, scrutinising Lee who bows her head, blushes, and becomes preoccupied with the salt shaker in the centre of the table.

"Are you pregnant?" Wilson demands.

"No!" she spits, a little too defensively.

"Are you and House… trying to get pregnant?"

"You got that from: no coffee and no alcohol?" Lee asks.

"It's not just that. House has been acting strangely too – reading weird journal articles on fertility cycle patterns!"

"Oh, and it's not like House to read weird journal articles? I caught him reading something in Swahili last week."

"Lee, are you trying to get pregnant?"

She drops her head again, shaking it slowly in admission.

"Ok, since when did _you_ become House?" she says.

"Oh my god…but…no…did you think about this?" Wilson responds, "I mean _really_ think about this?"

"Well, it wasn't my idea. It's a bit odd but he's almost obsessed with the idea."

"Oh, I think I know what's going on."

"What?"

"That comment his father made, when you guys got married. Something about _'not being up to fatherhood.'_ He's trying to prove his dad wrong."

"Well, yeah," she says, "in a way I think he is."

"And you're condoning this?"

"It's not what you think. It would be cathartic for him. Like a strange version of re-parenting. He wants to re-create what he couldn't have with his father."

"So you're going to give him a baby to help him heal his unresolved issues with his father? Wow, you really are one dedicated psychologist."

"I can't help it," she says, "if House wants something, and it's within my power to give it to him – I will."

"I know, but he's too messed up… fatherhood would just compound the issue – it's not going to make things any easier. House can't be a father."

"I think he can," she states proudly, "and I think he will be a good dad."

"You're too good to him."

"You know what the problem is?" she says, "not enough people _have_ been good to him, and certain people who should have been good to him, who had a duty to be good to him, left him high and dry."

Wilson nods slowly before adding: "I still say this is a bad idea…"

"Well you're the one getting married to a woman you've known for less than a month!" Lee challenges him.

"Don't change the subject, and don't tell House about the proposal just yet. I want him to hear about it _after_ the fact, or he will find a way of ruining it."

"I won't tell House about the proposal if you don't let on that you know about us trying to get pregnant."

"Deal."

"Deal."

They shake on it, and the waitress returns with their drinks.

………

After dinner, for the third time in as many hours, they are having sex.

The first time, he had taken her from behind, quite unexpectedly, in the kitchen as she was preparing chicken parmigiana. He had simply bunched her skirt up around her waist, tugged her panties down to her knees, unzipped his fly, gripped his cock in one hand and guided it to penetrate her. She hadn't even realised that he had arrived home from work until he was fucking her over the steamed vegetables. _Welcome home_, was all she could think as she relished in the feel of his impossibly hard cock making deep strokes in her – sliding into her so easily. She had become wet for him immediately. The surprise element was extremely arousing and she came without delay. She had dispensed with her underwear after this occasion. The second time, she had been clearing their plates from the table. He had been watching her in his usual way – and it simply turned her on, in the usual way. The flex of his bicep as his fingers weaved around the handle of his fork. The way his t-shirt fitted to his chest. The hint of his thick, muscular thighs through denim. She had discarded the dirty plates with a clatter, and decided that she should unzip his fly and sit in his rather inviting lap.

The dishes never did get cleaned.

Now, he is sprawled on his back, beneath her on the couch, and they are still partially clothed in their work apparel. He had managed to unbutton her blouse and only got so far as simply placing his hand on her right breast, at which point she had distracted him with her delectable rhythm. They are extraordinarily vocal on this particular occasion, simply because the mood had struck them.

"_Oh my god!"_ she exclaims, her head falling forward.

"_Ugh!"_ he responds.

"Oh!"

"Ugh… oh my _god!_"

"I know," she gasps, "_so good_…"

"_Yeah!" _he says breathlessly in response, "_keep doing that."_

"_Uh!"_ she exclaims – eyes closed.

Watching her is bringing him closer by the millisecond.

"_Jesus… you're gorgeous!"_ he says, because its true – she is most beautiful when she's coming, and because talking to her while she is so clearly intoxicated with pleasure is exacerbating his arousal beyond belief.

"_Oh god! Uh!"_ she moans, and she opens her eyes to see him – because she wants to watch him as she comes. She wants to see who she is making love to… the source of this buzzing, throbbing, warm, undying pleasure, and she is almost, _almost_ there… when she pauses in shock.

"No," he protests, "what… why did you stop?"

She seems frozen – she is looking over the back of the couch towards the front door.

"What?" he asks, concerned.

"You guys are having sex, aren't you?" House hears Wilson's voice say.

"_Unbelievable!"_ House mutters.

Wilson seems frozen in his place too. Lee wonders how long he has been standing there. Come to think of it… there was a sudden change in room temperature – a slight outdoor breeze around the first exclamation of _'oh my god!'_ but she had been so distracted that she had hardly noticed, and she certainly did not hear the door open. He had been standing – watching, disturbed, but unable to look away – like a bystander at a car accident.

House is hidden behind the back of the couch, and Wilson can only see Lee, clutching her hands at her chest.

"Ah, yeah," Lee says hesitantly, embarrassed.

"R…right now?" Wilson says, cringing, "I mean, were you actually…" he continues.

He can't seem to muster the decency to drop it, and leave the room.

"Yes!" House's disembodied voice floats up from behind the couch, "we were trying to. Couldn't you tell that from the sex noises? That might have been an indication that you should _get the fuck out!_ Do you have some sort of alarm that goes off every time we do it?"

"Oh my god," Wilson says, smacking his hand to his forehead, finally backing away.

"Get out, you perve!" House calls after him.

Lee scoffs at the irony and looks down at House.

"I can't go on," he says.

"I know," she says, feeling that he has gone soft inside her.

………

"Wilson!" House calls down the street a moment later.

"What?" Wilson shouts in reply.

"Get your ass back here."

"No."

"Yes. I want to know what was so important."

Wilson returns in a huff, his cheeks flushed pink with embarrassment and House ushers him inside where Lee sits on the couch, a blanket draped around her shoulders, her cheeks also flushed.

"Come on then," House says, "out with it. What was so important that you had to interrupt our _marital relations?_"

Wilson is surprised that House is still able to retain his sense of humour, despite being thoroughly pissed off.

"Oh Christ, it doesn't matter!" Wilson says, pouting.

"_What?"_ House demands.

"I knocked on the door, you mustn't have heard me. I heard you say yeah, and I thought you meant yeah, as in, _yeah, come in… _but obviously it was a different kind of yeah."

"Forget _how_ it happened," House says, "I want to know _why_ it happened. What did you want?"

Wilson looks at Lee for a moment before looking back at House.

"It's just... you're going to get Lee pregnant?"

"Wilson!" Lee exclaims.

"Oh, what a clever boy!" House says patronisingly, "you know where babies come from! What is this, a safe sex talk? Do you often go around interrupting couples to inform them of the risks they are taking when they have sex?'

"Don't play dumb" Wilson says, "Lee told me."

"Wilson!" Lee snaps.

House is floored. He can no longer use humor to avoid discussing the inevitable. He turns to Lee, raising his eyebrows.

"I didn't _tell_ him, he bullied it out of me, and anyway, he's proposing to Helen!"

"What?" House says, turning back to Wilson.

"Lee!" Wilson exclaims.

Lee pokes her tongue at Wilson childishly.

"Ok, that's it," House says pointing at Wilson and Lee both in turn, "you guys have to stop hanging out together, without me."


	48. XLVIII Spunk

**A/N**

My lovely friend: Houseketeer and I have established a new community over at LiveJournal for OFC (other female character) fics. The com is called: House-OFC (where the dash – represents an underscore) and we are looking for new members! We are hoping to pool together plenty of OFC fics, so that fans will be able to easily find what they are looking for. Posts are (more than) welcome, so if you write OFC fic come and check it out!

Sorry about the late update, but I'm a postgrad student – need I say anymore…

My undying gratitude to everyone who is still interested in this story - xoxo

* * *

**XLVIII – Spunk**

He watches her sleeping soundly, her hand balled into a fist and tucked under her chin, her brow furrowed slightly and her lips dancing to some inner monologue, some dream conversation.

"Lee," he whispers, stroking her bare shoulder, uncovered by the sheets.

Her brow furrows more noticeably and her lips purse into a straight line.

"Lee…"

She groans and shifts before rolling onto her back.

He raises his voice. "Lee!"

"Mm," she murmurs, "breadsticks and garlic butter…"

He chuckles, burying his face in his pillow for a moment before turning his head and opening an eye to watch her again.

He reaches out and takes a firm hold of her arm, shaking her gently.

"Lee."

"Hmm?" she opens her eyes and turns to face him, "what?"

"Are you awake?" he asks.

"I am now," she laughs.

He scoots closer to her, draping an arm over her resting body and nuzzling into the crook of her neck. She smells like cucumbers – the scent of her facial moisturiser.

"Good. Wanna have sex?" he says.

The room is black, and the traffic which can usually be heard from the nearby main road is barely audible.

"Mm," she grumbles, "what time is it?"

"3am," he says, kissing her forehead.

"Why 3am?"

"Well, am stands for: ante meridian, a Latin term meaning 'before noon…'"

"No, I mean why do you want to have sex at 3am?"

"Well, you're ovulating…" he starts.

"Oh my god," she chuckles, rolling her eyes.

He sniggers at this, throwing the crisp blue bed linen back, lifting her singlet and splaying his hands on her belly.

"But apart from that," he continues, "I was having this dream. You were washing the corvette out on the street. You were wearing a white t-shirt, no bra and when you went to fetch the hose, water sprayed all over you…"

She giggles.

"Then I came home on my bike and saw you with your wet t-shirt and I just had to have my way with you, then and there."

"Oh, we did it in the street?"

"Yep."

"Were you wearing your bike helmet and leather jacket?"

"Yep."

"Wow, that's totally hot!"

"Right, so now you're on the same page as me?"

"Well, almost. See, I was dreaming about that little pizzeria over on main."

"I know. Breadsticks and garlic butter."

"Yes! How did you…?"

"You were talking in your sleep."

"Oh," she says, before adding: "so, I'm hungry."

"Mm," he mutters contemplatively.

"Are you on the same page as _me_?" she asks.

He nods. "Screw me, and then I'll take you to McDonalds for a bacon and egg McMuffin."

She laughs. "Deal."

"So, how do you wanna do it?" he asks, cradling her face, pressing his lips against hers.

"Nice and slow," she purrs, "with the lights on."

He rolls on his side and reaches out to flick the switch on the bedside lamp.

She squints at the brilliance of the newly illuminated room, smiles at his scruffy bed-hair and sits up to pull her singlet over her head before shimmying out of her pajama bottoms and panties and lying naked, waiting for him.

His eyes widen at the sight and he lowers his body against hers, intending to kiss her again. She accepts the kiss before pulling back to tug at his grey cotton t-shirt, grunting: "off!"

"I want to feel your skin against mine," she adds.

He complies with this request, hastily removing his shirt and pants, before settling back into position, covering her body with his, curling an arm above her head on the pillow and sending his free hand down to trace her curves.

"Are you hard?" she asks, moving her hips against him.

"Mmm," he grumbles, catching her mouth in a rough, whiskery kiss.

She bends a knee and draws her leg up by his side, lodging her foot flat on the mattress. He takes this as a cue to enter her – slowly, savoring every wet warm inch.

Her short, sharp intakes of breath match each thrust of his hips.

"Good?" he says, asking for a critique of his rhythm.

"_Soogood,_" she slurs, eyes closed, creases forming across her brow.

He keeps it up, and she admires his stamina. Nice and slow, just as she had requested. He kisses her again, messily – their tongues meet before their lips.

With a clench of her pretty, pedicured toes, a soft sigh, a shudder and squeeze of his shoulder, she comes. He lets himself follow, spilling his hot, sinewy cum into her and experiencing a sense of achievement at the possibilities.

After a moment of smiling contently at her with heavy lidded eyes and receiving a giggle and a stroke on the cheek as a reward, he separates from her and rolls onto his back.

His eyes close, and he enjoys the residual feeling of his orgasm still tingling throughout his body.

"Greg," she says.

"Hmm?" he mumbles, eyes still closed.

"Don't fall asleep, you promised you'd take me to McDonalds."

"Right, get dressed."

………

"Do you want a boy or a girl?" she asks, chomping on her bacon and egg McMuffin in the car park of McDonalds as he sits on the white fence of the drive through bay, watching her. The collar of his long coat is turned up, and he rotates his cane in his grip, amusing himself with the sight of it twirling before his eyes.

"Isn't it bad luck to talk about that sort of thing?" he mumbles.

"Since when do you believe in _'luck?_'"

He drops his head, stubbing the end of his cane into the loose earth of the garden bed.

"Doesn't matter," he says, "as long as it's healthy."

She laughs at the cliché.

"I think you see us with a girl," Lee continues, "Grace…"

He stands and turns away from her now, his shoulders tensing and hitching with his frustration.

"Are you nearly finished that thing yet?" he snaps, throwing a glance at the McMuffin in her hand, "it's cold out here and I want to get a few more hour's sleep before work."

She shoves the remainder of the muffin in her mouth, chewing and swallowing before approaching him, and winding an arm around his waist.

"Greg, look at me."

He levels a sarcastic glance at her.

"We're going to need to talk about this sort of thing, because soon, I'm going to be pregnant and…"

"You don't know that," he interrupts her.

She shakes her head, dismissing this remark.

"Soon, I am going to be pregnant," she continues, "and we haven't even discussed things like schooling and childcare, maternity leave and _paternity_ leave for that matter…"

He raises an eyebrow at this comment.

"Yeah," she scoffs, "see, clearly, a serious discussion is needed. And I suppose we should open a new bank account and start saving…"

He closes his eyes and his mouth drops open in a gaping yawn. "Ok, all this talk about boring adult things is making me _really_ tired," he says, "can we go now?"

"Yes," she says, taking his hand, "come on, back to bed."

As they approach the car, she smiles, looking forward to their arrival home, settling into bed beside his warm, resting body.

"Do you think we could have another quickie before work?" he asks.

"I thought you were tired?" she laughs.

"Well I'm not _that_ tired."

………

He enters her office at noon, locks the door behind him.

"I'm on a break, and I'm hard," he says, standing behind her so that his erection presses against her ass.

"Nice to see you too, darling," she jokes, turning to face him and unbuckling his belt.

He leans his cane against the chair and stoops to kiss her. She pulls him back towards her desk.

"So, how did you get yourself in this state?" she asks, groping him, "is Cuddy wearing one of her _clingy_ blouses today?"

"Actually," he says, sending his hands up her skirt and tugging her panties down, "I was thinking about the time we did it in the car."

"Mmm, yes, that was one of my favourites," she says, sitting on her desk.

"You were drunk," he says with a smirk.

He parts her knees and stands between them, unzipping his fly and freeing his hard cock.

"I remember it perfectly," she says, hooking the heel of her shoe into a drawer handle on the desk in order to anchor herself as he enters her.

"_Mmm_," he groans, "alright then – tell me what we did."

He begins moving in her.

"Uh!" she mutters, "um… I made you pull over and I climbed into your lap."

"Yeah, but you forgot the part where... ugh!" he is distracted and she moves to match his rhythm.

"Where what?" she teases with a grin.

"Where you felt me up in the restaurant…" his voice is strained.

"Oh, that's right," she giggles, "good times."

They are silent for a moment, concentrating on the task.

"Harder," she says, hands on his ass, urging him in deeper.

He complies, thrusting harder and faster.

"_Oh yeah!"_ she cries out, causing him to grin and shush her with a finger.

Her hands travel up and around and her fingers snag on the buttons of his crumbled blue Oxford shirt. She loosens a few buttons so that she is able to throw his shirt open, exposing his bare chest and shoulders so that he resembles a buff hero from the cheesy illustration on a cover of a Harlequin romance novel.

"Uh…! I'm sure this will go down as one of our favourites too," she says breathlessly.

"About that…" he pants, "I thought you said no sex at work?"

"Hmm, that's right, you'd better pull out then," she jokes.

He comes at this moment.

"Too late," he says, wide eyed and wide mouthed.

………

He visits her again the next day, same time, same place. On this occasion, he bends her over the desk and takes her from behind.

"You're really taking advantage of this baby making plan aren't you?" she says, underpants at her ankles, knuckles white as her hands clutch the desk.

"You bet," he grunts.

"Do you aim to fuck me every which way over this desk?"

"Whatever it takes."

"Be careful this time," she says, "last time I had your spunk all over my skirt… not really a professional look. Besides, it's not going to do its job soaking into fabric when it should be… uh!"

He silences her with a deep thrust.

"Right, I'll try to be more precise with my delivery," he quips, "any more hot tips?"

"Yeah, if you go a little shallower and angle down, you can probably hit my g-spot," she says.

"Alright, as long as you promise to stop talking and come."

She finds herself biting the inside of her mouth so hard that she draws blood – in an effort to silence herself as she comes at his request.

……..

"Come on," he says the next day, sitting on her sofa, unzipping his fly and patting his knees in invitation, "you know what time it is – its _sex_ o'clock."

He waggles his brow at her.

"I'm really busy, so we'll have to make it quick," she says, removing her panties.

"Well, I'm already hard," he says, "so that should save some time."

"Hmm," she says, peering into his lap, "I can see that."

"It's the regularity of our lunch time _'appointments,' _you see," he says, "conditioning – every day now, right on noon, I get an erection."

"That's hot."

"What about you?" he says, sliding a hand up the inside of her thigh, "you ready to go?"

"Not quite yet," she says, and then her eyes shut and her head falls forward as his fingers find her clit.

"You know what gets me really wet?" she says, raising a brow.

"Johnny Depp in a pirate's hat?" he quips.

She rolls her eyes and kneels in front of him.

"Sucking. You. Off." She replies, before lowering her head in his lap and flicking her tongue out against the head of his cock.

"If you insist," he groans, dropping his head back to rest against the couch, "but don't spend too long down there, you're a champion at giving head – you don't want me to come and waste the baby batter. What is it that the Python boys say? _Every sperm is sacred._"

She smiles, stands and slides a knee beside his, lifting her leg over him and settling into his lap.

Lodging his hands on her hips, he guides her movements as she rides him, bringing him to orgasm almost immediately.

………

"What are you grinning about?" Wilson asks House, seated alone in his office, later in the afternoon.

"Nothing…" House replies unconvincingly.

He yawns before scratching his stubbled chin, stretching his arms high above and smiling contently, staring out through the window behind his desk.

He swivels in his chair to face Wilson and lifts the ball from the desk in front of him.

"You reckon I could throw this right across to the children's ward?" he says, eyeing the building across the way.

"What?" Wilson asks, "What's wrong with you?"

"I just had sex with my wife," House admits, displaying a groggy smile.

"What? At work?"

"Yeah. We have regular sex breaks every day at lunch. It's _fantastic_. You really aughta get yourself a new wife… oh wait, that's right, you're about to rush into ill-advised marriage number 3!"

"Lee is _still_ not pregnant?" Wilson asks, ignoring House's insult.

"No," House responds, a frown tainting his expression and a deep melancholic tone replacing his cheerful, snarky voice.

"Well, I guess I'm not really surprised," Wilson continues, "I'm still baffled by how it could have happened the first time."

House rolls his eyes.

"Wait, I know this one, I went to med school – it's the whole penis in the vagina thing isn't it?" he says sarcastically, "duh, we were at it like rabbits, you idiot."

"Well, I assume you guys were using _some kind_ of birth control…"

"She was on the pill, but she must have missed one or something… it happens all the time. Besides, those little guys can be potent."

"Yeah," Wilson replies, "I don't know about _your_ 'little guys' though. What about all that Vicodin you've been popping over the last few years…"

House sits straight in his chair, silently counting the months they have been trying to get pregnant. Including the stunt he had pulled with her pills, he realizes that 6 months have passed.

"You thought I was shooting blanks?" he asks.

"Well, very low sperm count at the least."

"Whoa, that was below the belt… literally. You're saying my swimmers are lame?"

"Natural order perhaps."

"So by your logic, you reckon that her pregnancy – the baby she lost, was some sort of miracle? You think it could have been our only chance?"

Wilson raises his eyebrows and purses his lips as if to say, "possibly…"


	49. XLIX Lullaby

**A/N**  
Thanks to everyone who is still interested in this story, and for all of your lovely comments!

This chapter is dedicated to **_surferosa_** for keeping me motivated to write this story by always asking : _'how are things going with House and Lee?'_ ;) and for posting this chap for me. Thanks hun! Much love.

* * *

**XLIX – Lullaby**

On the next occasion that he visits her in her office, he is much less enthusiastic. She regards his forlorn expression.

"You're having your period aren't you?" he says.

She sighs and places her folder on the table, nodding slowly.

His sad expression remains.

"These things take time, I don't mind if we have to keep trying…" she says, approaching him, "we'll do it ten times a day if we need too."

He nods and opens his arms to accept her hug.

"I'm going to get tested," he says, kissing her forehead.

"What?" she asks, lodging her chin at the centre of his chest and tilting her head up to look at him.

"Sperm test. Wilson thinks my swimmers are lame."

"But…" she starts, "we've conceived once before."

"Wilson thinks it was a _miracle_."

She pulls back from his embrace and rolls her eyes.

"Wilson thinks this, Wilson thinks that…" she scoffs, "since when did Wilson become a fertility expert?"

"He could be right – it could be the Vicodin," House replies.

"It's only been, what? Five, six months? You're a doctor, you know it can take even longer than that."

"I know, but… I think Wilson could really be… right," he says this hesitantly, as if he is loathe to admit that his friend may have drawn the conclusion before he could.

"Maybe it's me," she says, "maybe something happened when I had the miscarriage, or maybe there's something wrong with me that caused the miscarriage in the first place..."

"No," he interrupts her rather sternly, because he feels a great deal of guilt regarding this issue, "there's nothing _wrong_ with you. I saw the file, you're in top condition, and we know what caused that miscarriage…"

His voice softens and he averts his gaze.

"Ok," she says, "get tested – there's no harm in it. If there is a problem, we may as well find out sooner than later."

………

She accompanies him to the fertility clinic, holding his hand tightly as if he is embarking on a test for a serious, life threatening illness.

He rolls his eyes at her as they walk across the parking lot.

"Don't worry," he says, "I've done this sort of thing before – I needed money when I was in college so I donated."

She turns her head slowly to glare at him.

He nods.

"Did you know that MENSA had a peak in its membership last year? I like to think that I'm responsible…"

Her eyes widen and her jaw drops.

"I'm joking!" he exclaims, "jeez, _you're_ the one who's nervous…"

The automatic doors glide open and they are welcomed by a sterile scent: _Eau de_ _Public Clinic._

House strides up to the reception area with Lee in tow, thumping on the desk to obtain the receptionist's attention.

"Is this the porn-shop-disguised-as-a-medical-facility?" he asks, raising a brow.

The receptionist is not amused.

"I've come to read your dirty mags and jerk off in one of your rooms," he continues.

Lee blushes, but she can't stifle her giggle.

The receptionist flashes House a cold look, before pushing a form across the desktop, in his direction.

"What? It's a very clever disguise," House says, lifting the pen, beginning to fill in the form, "the same thing happens a block away in the private booths of 'The Love Shack' and it's considered the seedy side of town."

He shrugs.

"You guys provide the same facilities and pass it off as a 'clinic,'" he taps the side of his nose.

The receptionist snatches his form.

"Are you saying you have a problem with our facilities Mr…" she quickly eyes his form, "…House?"

"Nope, I'm saying – keep up the good work."

She narrows her eyes at him before reaching under the desk, retrieving a plastic container and placing it in front of him.

"Use the first room on the left," she says.

House nods and takes Lee's hand once more, heading in the direction of the room.

"Wait," the receptionist calls after them.

"Oh, you're going to join us?" House quips, "I didn't realise the staff were so _hands on_, tell me, what are your qualifications?"

The woman moves from behind the desk, arms crossed.

"You," she points at House, "can go in by yourself, we wouldn't want anything _seedy_ going on now would we…"

"But…" Lee begins to protest, but the woman intensifies her glare.

It is obvious that House has pissed her off – she is not willing to negotiate.

………

Once inside the room – small and cramped with its white walls, white tiles and generally un-sexy décor including a rubber plant in the corner of the room, blue vinyl (stain resistant) chair and television set with VHS recorder, he realises that he is, in fact, incredibly nervous.

The gravity of the situation hits him.

No healthy sperm, no baby.

No baby – a total upheaval of his expectations and plans for the future.

He had told himself that once he had convinced Lee – he'd have it in the bag. He did not anticipate this hurdle.

It happens rarely, but in this moment, he is regretting his excessive Vicodin consumption.

Ironically, his leg begins to nag at him – the pain starts as a dull throb and worsens to a sharp spasm. He sits in the chair and clutches his thigh. Beads of sweat collect on his brow and he contemplates taking two Vicodin in order to get the job done.

He retrieves the yellow vial from his pocket, holds it up to the light and shakes it.

_The enemy?_

He pops the lid, quickly swallows two of the pills and hides the plastic bottle back in his pocket.

_Now for the task at hand…_

He reaches for one of the magazines displayed in a fan arrangement on the nearby table.

Penthouse.

He flicks through the pages.

Plastic breasts, hair extensions, excessive waxing, orange hued skin.

Fake, fake, fake.

He sits back in the chair, tries to relax. He unbuckles his belt and opens his fly – slips his right hand in behind his jeans.

He reads about Debbie the hairdresser. Apparently you get a _great deal_ at her salon. Style cut, blow dry and blow_ job_. She is sucking on some guy's cock and leering down the lens of the camera.

House moves his hand around in his pants but he does not detect any response.

Plastic sex is not hot.

He longs for the real thing.

He dumps the magazine back on the table and closes his eyes. Lee had hugged him earlier, and he can still smell her perfume on his blazer. He thinks about the sounds she makes in his ear as she writhes beneath him in bed. Soft sighs and moans.

He realises that he is groping himself, massaging the growing bludge in his pants, making a rough circular motion. His bottom lip falls and he releases a soft moan from his own mouth.

He is still touching himself through the material of his boxer briefs, and he imagines that a little skin to skin contact will help things along, so he lifts his hips enough to pull his jeans and boxers down and free his cock – now swollen to full size.

He closes his eyes again as he begins stroking himself, so he can imagine that Lee's delicate hands – her long slender fingers and manicured nails are causing the little jolts of pleasure travelling up his spine.

He thinks that if she were here now, she would sit beside him and stroke him steadily and precisely while whispering dirty words to him, letting her tongue play with his lobe, breathing hot and heavy in his ear.

"_Greg, I'm so wet for you …"_

His thumb makes frantic circles on the head of his cock now (her favourite technique) and he fumbles for the plastic container on the table.

He manages to hold the container in place, shooting accurately as he comes, shuddering and gasping.

He smiles proudly to himself.

………

He has the results on his desk in under a week.

He rips the envelope open, scans the report and meets her in her office.

"My sperm count is low. I'm going off the Vicodin for a couple of weeks," he announces, pacing the length of her room.

"What? Greg…"

"I've done it before..."

"Greg," she says, watching his nervous pacing, "I think we should talk about why you want this so badly…"

"Look, its no big deal…" he continues, ignoring her blatant concern, "there is a distinct possibility that the Vicodin may have been effecting sperm production. If I go off the pills for a few weeks, we can try and determine whether it has had any permanent effect, or whether it's reversible."

"Greg…" she moves around to the front of her desk, "are you sure about this?"

He regards her in his usual way, eyebrows raised, lips pursed.

She smiles at him, hugging him close.

"Ok, but if it gets too much… promise me you'll go back on the Vicodin," she looks up at him, blinking her doe eyes.

He says nothing.

"I just don't know if it's worth it…" she says.

"I think it is."

………

Sex is both the first and last thing on his mind. It is a necessity, given their plan and yet he is in so much pain – so uncomfortable that he cringes at the thought of having to perform. They had not had sex in over a week, but today, when he returns from work, he decides it is time to bite the bullet. She greets him at the door and he grabs her immediately.

His skin is pale, he wears a sullen expression and he hunches forward as if nursing fresh wounds all over his body.

"Oh darling you look like death warmed up," she says quietly, her fingers dancing over the clammy skin of his face.

He pushes her against the door like a frantic, sweaty mad man and begins kissing her roughly. She pulls back from him, her eyes searching his.

"Greg…"

"Come on, let's do this."

She watches him sadly as he moves towards the bedroom leaning heavily on his cane for support. Reluctantly, she follows. She enters to find him sitting on the edge of the bed, gesturing for her to join him. She remains in position, leaning on the door frame, biting her lip, a look of concern on her face.

"Come on, I haven't been though hell all week for no reason," he snaps in obvious frustration.

She moves to sit next to him, taking his face in her hands and kissing him gently. He responds by kissing her hard on the mouth and pushing her back on the bed. She gasps in shock as he forces his tongue into her mouth while his hands move under her skirt. She is surprisingly turned on by how rough he is and by how much of a necessity it seems to be, and yet this makes her feel guilty - she is distracted by his obvious pain and discomfort, his sickly demeanour. He pulls back from her long enough to tug her underpants down. They catch on the heels of her stilettos and he curses as he finally rips them out of the way. She is taken aback as she watches him kneel while frantically tugging at his belt and fly. She notes that his testicles appear to be incredibly swollen.

"Greg your…" she points with wide eyes.

He nods once, sternly.

"Prostatic congestion," he murmurs, "I _really_ need to get off."

He pushes her skirt up her thighs, parts her legs and lowers his body to hers.

"Greg, do you think I should be on top?"

Knowing she would take it too long if she were in control (she has a slow, blissful rhythm that he usually enjoys) he doesn't respond. He silences her with another rough kiss, holds her hands above her head to signify his dominance and immediately pushes into her.

She gasps – a sharp intake of breath as he begins thrusting hard and fast.

He groans: _"fuuuck,"_ and weighs down on her, pinning her wrists against the mattress, rotating his hips and slamming into her with great urgency.

He is fucking her _hard_, and she finds the encounter so thrilling that she comes at this moment, moaning his name loudly. He releases her hands, still holding her in place with the weight of his body and she grips the bed head for support as he continues to pound into her. He squeezes her thighs, and she knows that her fair skin will be dappled with little blue fingermark bruises tomorrow. Finally he comes, grunting loudly, signifying a release of pain and pleasure. She is relieved to feel his semen spilling into her. There seems to be so much of it – it as if he just keeps coming.

With great effort, he rolls off her, lying beside her on the bed, breathing heavily. She watches as he squeezes his eyes shut tightly, and she leans over to kiss him gently on the forehead. She runs her fingers through his hair.

"Did I hurt you?" he asks quietly.

"No," she responds softly, kissing his forehead again, "on the contrary..."

"Hmm," he says, eying her curiously, "remind me to assault you more often – you really get off on the rough stuff, don't you?"

She nods sheepishly. "But I feel bad – you're in so much pain."

"Well if you can get your rocks off, then I suppose that's an up side."

"Is there anything I can get you?" she asks.

He shakes his head, eyes still shut tightly.

"How bout a stiff drink?"

He opens his eyes and nods slowly. "Mm. But stay still for a while."

He grips her arm and she complies with his instruction, lying next to him on the bed.

She plays with his hair – barely touching it. It is thinning in some places, and greying, but in her opinion, he is still the sexiest man alive. He needs a haircut. The longer it gets, the curlier it gets. She lets one of the curls encircle her littlest finger. Now, she takes his hand and draws faint circles on his palm, before walking two of her fingers over his wrist, and tickling his arm – making patterns.

"Is that annoying?" she asks.

He shakes his head. "It's nice," he says.

"I'm so tired," he grumbles, covering his face with his hands, rubbing his eyes.

"I know," she says, "you haven't had a decent sleep in over a week."

He nods into the pillow.

"Do you feel like you could sleep now?"

"Maybe," he says, his heavy eyelids blinking.

She moves down his body and removes any uncomfortable items of clothing – she throws his shoes and socks on the floor, pulls his already unbuckled belt through the loops, tugs his jeans off and pulls him into a sitting position temporarily in order to remove his outer shirt. He settles back against the mattress, wearing only his boxer briefs and t-shirt.

"Take the phone off the hook," he says, "I don't want to speak to anyone – I don't care what the emergency is."

She complies with this request, knocking the phone off the cradle and dashing out into the living room and kitchen to disconnect the other phones before settling back on the mattress beside him.

"Anything else?" she asks.

"Yes, come closer."

She smiles and takes the edge of the blanket from the bottom of the bed, settling in beside him and pulling the covers over their resting bodies.

"You're nice and warm, and you smell good," he mumbles into her hair.

She giggles, and her hand finds his thigh – applying gentle pressure and rubbing in a circular motion.

His eyes close and he moans contently at this.

"Good?" she asks.

"Mmmmmmm," he responds.

"Want me to tell you a story?" she asks.

He opens one eye to peer at her.

"What?!"

She shrugs. "It might help…"

"Ok."

"Have you heard the story about Orpheus and Eurydice?"

He raises a brow at her.

"It's an ancient Greek myth," she replies, "you see, Orpheus – a skilled musician…"

"What did he play?"

"Oh, I don't know, what did they play in those days – a lyre?"

He nods.

"Ok - Orpheus – a skilled _lyricist_, was in love with the beautiful Eurydice…"

"How beautiful?"

"Stunning – a regulation hottie. Gisele Bunchen Hot."

"Got it."

"So, Eurydice was more beautiful than even the most perfect rose that the goddess of nature could produce, and Orpheus' music was more beautiful than the loveliest bird's song…"

"Show offs."

"They were very much in love until Eurydice was bitten by a snake…"

"What kind of snake?"  
"Are you going to keep interrupting? You're supposed to be trying to sleep."

"Ok, I'll shut up."

"Eurydice died from the snake's venom, and Orpheus was inconsolable – he played such mournful music that he made the gods weep and they decided to help him concoct a plan to get his love back. He decided he would go down to the underworld and help her escape, so he played his music at the entrance of the underworld, to mesmerise and distract the guards. Hades, the god of the underworld, heard his music and was so moved that he decided to make a deal with Orpheus – he would reunite the lovers on one condition…"

She pauses and waits to have his eye-contact.

"Orpheus was to turn around and make his way back into the world, trusting that Hades would let Eurydice follow, but he was _not to look back_."

"Argh, he looked back, didn't he?" House grumbles.

"Orpheus followed the light," she continues, "and when he had almost reached the end, he couldn't resist, he had to make sure that she was following. He looked back…"

"Idiot!"

"… he looked back in time to see her shadow dissolving as Hades pulled her back into the underworld."

"Is that it? Is that the end?"

She nods. "That's about it."

"What's the moral of the story?" he asks sarcastically, yawning.

"I think it's about trust."

"I think it's stupid," he responds, his eyes blinking shut.

She giggles and continues to stroke his hair, watching the lines and creases settle on his face as sleep takes him.

She punches the pillow above her and lies beside him, watching him sleep peacefully.

Suddenly, she jolts into a sitting position when she hears the shrill ring of his cell phone, emanating from the pocket of his blazer.

"Shit!" she exclaims, launching herself off the bed and snatching the phone from the pile of clothing on the floor.

She glances back at him, and surprisingly he hasn't stirred. Rather, he has begun to snore.

She closes the door gently and takes the phone into the lounge room to answer it.

"Hello?"

"Hello?" the voice down the line seems surprised.

"Who is this?" Lee enquires.

"This is Dr Cameron, who is this?"

"This is Lee House," Lee responds, matter-of-factly.

"Oh!" Cameron exclaims, "Oh! Well, could I speak to House please?"

"Sorry, he's asleep."

"Hmm… do you think you could wake him? We have something of an emergency."

"Um, I don't think so, he said he didn't want to be disturbed."

"This really is an emergency…"

"Well, he has told me once before that you are all perfectly equipped to deal with any emergencies in his absence."

"We just need his advice, we won't be long."

"Sorry…"

"We might have to come over there…" Cameron threatens.

"Well you'll have to get through me first," Lee contends, pressing the red button to end the call.

She turns his cell phone off and discards it on the coffee table, smiling to herself. She had spent a good half an hour getting that man off to sleep and she wasn't going to wake him to witness Elvis rising from the dead, let alone some anxiety provoked phone call from his subordinates.

Her grin widens as she realises she had exercised a new skill – getting a restless baby off to sleep...

It makes her question her original doubt of her competence as a potential mother.

………

Arriving home from work late, she finds him in the bathroom, on his knees, slumped over the toilet seat vomiting. Just one of the many withdrawal symptoms.

She rubs his back and he looks at her coldly as he stands, because he knows she's thinking _poor darling._ He flushes the toilet and moves to the basin, saying: "don't look at me like that," before turning the tap, stooping, and opening his mouth to the stream of water.

"Like what?" she asks calmly.

"With your sad eyes," he says, refusing to looking at her.

She moves to stand next to him.

"You're the one with the sad eyes, hun," she says quietly, "but they're pretty eyes."

"Besides," he says, ignoring this comment, "if all goes according to plan, you'll be the one with your head in the toilet bowl soon."

"Hopefully," she says, smiling faintly and pulling him against her gently.

"Although, I didn't have morning sickness with my first…." she stops.

They don't talk about the miscarriage often.

"Well…the other time," she says, her eyes flicking up at him.

Suddenly, and overwhelmingly, he appreciates her sympathy.

"Kiss me," he says.

"Greg, you just vomited!"

He shrugs. "I rinsed."

"Oh, you're such a boy," she says, chuckling.

"Kiss me," he says again.

"No!" she chuckles.

She notices that his jaw clenches.

"I feel awful," he says, shyly averting his gaze to the floor tiles, "I need a kiss."

She pauses. She thinks this is the strangest thing she has ever heard him say. Well, one of the strangest things. Lately, he has a habit of making comments out of left field.

She watches his expression for a moment. It is as if he is seeking reassurance. He needs to know that this isn't going to break them apart. He is blatantly asking for her to comfort him. This is one of the most vulnerable moments he has shared with her – she knows she couldn't possibly deny him. Her hands frame his face and she stands on the tips of her toes to place a slow, pronounced kiss on his lips.

"I love you," she says, before moving to the door, clean your teeth and come to bed so we can get busy."

………

"Damn it, mother fucker!"

"It's ok," she soothes.

"Ok? _OK?_ I can't get it up, Lee! Do you see how that could possibly interfere with our plans?" he spits.

"It's _O-Kay_," she insists more sternly.

"Try to relax," she says, placing a hand on his chest and gently forcing him back against the mattress.

"I'm impotent," he says, pouting.

"You're not impotent!" she scoffs, "it's all in your head."

"And speaking of head…" she adds, moving down his body.

"I know you feel dreadful," she says in between kissing his chest, "but try to focus on what you're feeling here…" she places a single kiss on the head of his flaccid penis, before flicking her tongue out.

He shudders.

"…rather than what you're feeling here," her hand drifts over his scar ever so gently, "…get it?"

He nods, staring at the ceiling.

"…and watch, if it helps," she adds.

He looks down to find that her eyes are focused on him as she swirls her tongue around his cock.

"Ah!" he moans at this and arches back into the pillow.

"See, told you it's ok," she says, grinning.

He closes his eyes, breathes deeply and focuses his attention on the warm wetness of her mouth enveloping his cock.

After a moment he hears her say: "Greg, watch," and his eyes flick open to see her kneeling, touching herself with one hand and stroking him with the other.

She smiles at him wickedly before her head drops forward and she releases a quiet sigh of pleasure.

"_Christ!"_ he exclaims, aroused beyond belief, "come here."

He gestures with his hand and she shuffles close to him, lifts her leg over his resting body, and lowers herself to sit on the stiff erection between his thighs.

"_Ugh!"_ she moans as she settles into position.

He stretches his hands behind his head and he watches her as she begins moving on him.

"Now you're going to come for me, yes?" she says as she gently rises and sits down on his cock.

Slick, tight, hot.

He nods and grunts his response – signs of strain evident in his expression.

"Yes?" she repeats grinning her sex grin.

"_Hmmm,"_ he mumbles.

"Yes?"

She quickens her pace alternating between swivelling her hips in a circular motion, and rocking on him.

"_Yes!"_

"And this time, when you come inside me, you're going to get me pregnant, yes?"

She thinks there is nothing like a dash of positive thinking to heighten the mood, and he must agree because he ejaculates at this moment.

"_Yes!"_ he exclaims blissfully as his hips rise off the bed, lifting her body with his.

"See," she says, dismounting him immediately and lying beside him in an attempt to stay the effects of gravity, "you are definitely _not_ impotent."

"You were rock hard the entire time!" she adds for the comical value.

They both laugh at this and he rolls on his side to curl his arm around her.

His hand moves to her belly, below her navel.

"Swim boys, swim," he says and her giggling becomes louder, "go forth and fertilize."

"How are you feeling now?" she says, her fingers playing under his jaw.

"Good… well, better. Orgasm is a satisfactory, albeit temporary substitute for Vicodin."

"Well, in that case, we'd better do it again," she says, "how many times do you usually pop Vicodin a day?"

"Six-ish," he replies.

"Cool, one fuck down, five to go!" she jokes.

He laughs again, kissing her forehead.


	50. L Relinquish

**A/N**

Sorry it took so long! I do intend to finish this story.

Thanks to everyone who is still reading, and a special thanks to **_Surferosa_** for her enthusiasm.

* * *

**L. – Relinquish**

When she opens the front door, she rushes toward him emanating concern and empathy and it makes him cringe. This had been their routine for the past week. He had usually managed to suffer through her excessive display of compassion long enough to initiate sex. He had soon learned that taking her from behind was the most efficient method and they very rarely made it to the bedroom anymore. Instead, he would often bend her over the back of the couch almost as soon as she arrived home. At first, she had found the necessity of the event to be erotic, but the novelty had soon wore off. For him, there had been no novelty value to begin with – the pain was so intense he often failed to get an erection.

Now, she sits beside him on the couch, and the perfumed gust of her arrival washes over him.

"How are you feeling?" she asks, shrugging her grey tailored blazer from her shoulders and draping an arm around his neck.

He turns to face her. Her brow is furrowed with trepidation.

He narrows his eyes.

"What do you think?" he growls.

She gives a sympathetic "hmm" in response and kisses his cheek, allowing her lips to linger – enjoying the scratch of his whiskers.

"Hot bath?" she asks, as she continues her bestowal of affection, kissing her way from his cheek to his brow.

"No," he snaps, flinching away from her, swerving to miss her next kiss.

Her eyes flick shut – her expression registering with disappointment for a brief moment.

"Sorry," she breathes, "I know you feel like shit – but I can't help wanting to touch you. I missed you."

He levels a glare at her, raising his eyebrow mockingly.

"I saw you at work less than four hours ago."

She sighs, turning from him to lower her gaze to the carpet. "I know."

He watches as she breathes deep, sighs again, and her fingers fiddle with the hem of her skirt at her knee. His character dictates that he should maintain his frosty, antagonistic response to her, but he can't help it. She is so perfect, so pretty, so comforting, so grounding – that she gets him every time. A grin lifts the corner of his mouth and he swoops on her, scooping his hand under her jaw, turning her face to his and kissing her lips. She giggles in delight and turns on the couch, wrapping both of her arms around his neck and pressing her body close to his.

She opens her mouth, granting entrance to his probing tongue. In no time, one of his hands slides under her skirt, over her knee and up her thigh, exploring the lace tops of her nylon pantyhose, while his other fiddles with his belt and fly. She opens an eye, spying this activity and breaks the kiss.

"Greg," she says hesitantly, "why can't I kiss you without it leading to straight to sex these days?"

Ignoring her comment, her takes her hand and pulls her over, carefully arranging her to sit in his lap. His hands scurry under her skirt again – scampering to find the waistband of her panties.

"Greg!" she protests, attempting to hold his hands back.

"What?!"

"I don't want to have sex."

His face displays a blank expression.

"Why not?"

"Because I am not in the mood."

He rolls his eyes.

"You're always in the mood."

"Not lately," she retorts.

She notices his jaw clench, and other obvious signs of frustration in his body language – the lines on his forehead become deep set, his eyes darken, his hands ball into fists.

"Right. So it's true what they say. After about a year of marriage the sex turns bad," he sneers, mocking her, "aren't you going to give me a lame excuse? Got a headache? Got your period?"

"Hey," she says, narrowing her eyes and moving off his lap to sit beside him, "I _love_ having sex with you. Usually, it's amazing, but lately it's been… mechanical…"

He flashes a look – hurt glinting in his eyes.

"But its not you," she adds quickly, "it's this baby thing – it's the pressure, it's the pain in your thigh."

She is trying to soothe him, but all he hears is: _this is your fault – you defective, useless cripple._

"So you're saying we should stop trying?" he asks.

"I'm saying I can't stand to see you in this amount of pain anymore," she replies, "I'm saying that it's not getting us anywhere. I'm saying maybe we should consider other options – like IVF."

"_I'm_ the one in pain, and I can handle it," he barks, "all _you_ have to do is lay back and spread your legs."

"Greg!" she snaps in disgust, standing and moving away from the couch.

As she turns, she hears him advancing quickly behind. He snatches her by the wrist and spins her. He takes two steps forward, trapping her between the back of the sofa and his body.

"I'm not giving up," he says.

His chest rises and falls quickly with his heavy breathing and he frantically unbuckles his belt. His eyes are glazed over with something ominous – he is determined, bestial, crazed. She admits to herself that it scares her – even if only slightly.

"Stop it," she warns calmly, keeping her voice steady and low.

Despite this protestation, he continues to advance, pressing his body hard against hers and sending his hands under her skirt again.

"Greg!" she shouts, catching his hand by clasping her slender fingers around his wrist, "would you look at yourself, look at what you're doing!"

He stops instantly and he meets her gaze. His eyes soften – the look of determination is replaced by a certain sadness. The creases on his brow settle, and his expression falls.

Suddenly, he takes two quick steps back from her, retrieves his cane and turns away. He begins to dash about the living room, apparently in search of something. She watches him curiously, her concern mounting.

"Greg…" she calls his name questioningly.

"Where are my keys?" he snaps.

"Hey…" she says – her voice low and soothing.

She approaches him as he continues his frantic search.

"What are you doing honey?" she asks timidly.

He doesn't respond because he has found his keys. He snatches them up, along with his wallet and throws the front door open. She watches, mouth agape, tears welling in her eyes as he steps out into the cold night and slams the door shut behind him.

"Shit," she whispers to herself, running her fingers through her lose hair.

The dog shifts beneath her feet, whimpering as if in pain – obviously sensing unrest.

"It's ok Blue," she coos, kneeling to pet his head. He blinks at her contently.

After a moment, an idea dawns on her. She stands and rushes forth, snatching her own keys from the side table and leaving the apartment.

…….

"How did you find me?" he asks incredulously, leaning on the doorframe of the hotel room he had booked for the night.

"I followed you," she responds, a proud grin pulling at the corners of her lips.

"You're hard to keep up with," she adds, pushing past him to enter the room, "you drive too fast."

He shuts the door after her and watches as she roams the room, investigating her surroundings.

"Nice," she says, turning back to him, "I hope you weren't intending on staying here for very long…"

He shrugs.

She swallows hard, blinking back more tears before approaching him.

To her surprise, he opens his arms and she falls into his embrace. It is the most natural, seamless thing in the world. She smiles and sobs into his shirt – relieved.

"_I'm sorry,"_ he whispers the words into her hair.

She nods against his chest. "I know."

"How did you get up here anyway?" he asks, "access to this floor is restricted by swipe card entry."

"I made out with one of the security guards," she says, and he looks down at her in surprise.

She giggles, digging her hand into the pocket of her jacket, retrieving something.

"I told the guard that my husband had forgotten his important medication," she says, holding a plastic vile of Vicodin up for his viewing.

"Where did you get those?" he asks.

"Wilson," she says, before adding: "come and sit down," and taking his hand to guide him to the plush leather sofas in the centre of the room.

He limps after her, and she waits for him to settle against the cushions before she kicks off her shoes and settles beside him. She holds his hand to her face, exploring his lovely slender fingers and his clean, blunt fingernails. She kisses the back of his hand before lowering it to rest on her knee.

"Why are you with me?" he asks quietly, averting his eyes to the carpet and squeezing her knee.

"Oh!" she sighs, gently kissing his cheek, "because I am _absolutely_ in love with you."

He turns to face her, offering a doubtful expression.

"You still don't believe me?" she asks, shaking her head.

"Greg," she says, "I have left relationships when I discovered they weren't working and when I realised they never would, as much as I wanted them to. I have left relationships after a matter of days, I have left relationships after a matter of weeks, months, even _years_. I even broke off an engagement a month before the wedding."

He raises his eyebrows. "You're a heartbreaker."

"No, I just don't kid myself," she replies, "I wouldn't still be with you if I didn't think we had a chance."

He nods slowly.

"I love you," she adds again, knocking her shoulder against his playfully.

"Why?" he asks her.

"Because you fascinate me," she replies, "I find myself in awe of you every day. I will never grow tired of you. I adore you."

He smiles faintly.

She retrieves the small plastic bottle of Vicodin again and pops the lid. She tips two of the white oval shaped pills into her hand and holds them in line with his mouth. Reluctantly, he opens his lips, allowing her to place them on his tongue.

"Swallow," she says, "and I know all of the psychiatric inpatient tricks so don't try hiding them under your tongue."

He smiles and swallows.

"Want a chaser?" she asks, standing and moving to the kitchenette to explore the contents of the mini bar.

He nods to her, before pressing his fingers to his temples. The throbbing pain in his leg is almost matched by the pain in his head.

She pulls the door of the fridge open and squats to its height. He thinks this vision of her - basking in the golden light emanating from within, is very appropriate. He hears the tinkling of the bottles as she turns them on the rack to read the labels. He allows his eyes to close for a second, and when they blink open again, she is standing in front of him with a glass – ice dancing in scotch.

"Thank-you," he rasps, taking the glass from her hand and sipping quickly.

She waits for him to drink a few more sips before she takes his face in her hands, kissing him softly. He responds by closing his lips on hers, and she tastes the bitter-sweet malt flavour of the scotch on his mouth.

Her hand wanders up the inside of his good thigh before settling on his crotch, feeling his flaccid cock through the thick denim. She works her hand, kneading and teasing with her flat palm, stroking and tracing with her dexterous fingers.

"How are you feeling?" she coos in his ear.

He smiles drowsily, feeling the combined effects of the alcohol and Vicodin replace his pain with a numb, blissful tingling.

"Pretty fucking god," he murmurs happily.

"Well just you wait…" she purrs, grinning while she fiddles with the buckle of his belt.

He allows his head to tip forward and he watches as she pops the spoke through the hole and the strap through the buckle. She leaves the leather straps gaping open and slides his zip down. Knowing her intentions full well, he is already hard for her. It has been weeks since he has been able to get an erection within a matter of seconds and they both smile at this achievement.

She lifts his cock above the elastic of his boxer briefs and wastes no time in lapping at the salty beads of precum leaking from its swollen head.

"I thought you said you weren't in the mood," he whimpers.

She rises up on her knees, takes his hand and guides it under her skirt. She urges him to press his fingers under the material of her panties and his fingertips broach her swollen wet entrance. She moans and clutches at his shoulders and he feels his pulse throbbing in his cock as if it were his life force.

"Does it feel like I'm not in the mood?" she asks him with a naughty grin.

Before he can answer, she lowers her head into his lap and takes the entire length of his cock into her mouth. The suddenness of her movement forces his fingers up inside her and they moan in unison. Involuntarily, he lifts his hips up to meet her mouth and she grinds her own hips against his hand. She delights in the sounds of his pleasure – the helpless groans as she works her tongue and the grunts of surprise as she sucks hard, creating a tight cavity for his shaft to slide in and out of. He can barely muster the concentration to continue pumping his fingers inside her. She works him slowly, savouring the taste and feel of him – full, rigid, throbbing vivaciously.

She eases him out of her mouth, leaving his shaft glistening wet with her saliva as she presses her hands on his thighs, gesturing for him to open his legs so that she can access his balls. With this, his fingers slip from her tight cunt and he holds her head as she gently nips at his scrotum with her front teeth, before making tickling circles over his delicate skin with her tongue – all the while, pumping and stroking his shaft firmly with her cupped hand, pausing on the upstroke to thumb his leaking head.

"Oh. My. God." he pants, pushing her hair back off her face so that he is able to watch, "I'm going to come…"

With this exclamation, his hips arch off the sofa and his cock spasms rhythmically as it shoots forth ribbons of white cum. She opens her mouth over his head, catching his ejaculation and swallowing as he continues to spasm and moan with delight.

"Now how are you feeling?" she asks with a grin.

"You're amazing," he responds, grinning in return, "come to bed."

………

Together, they turn back the covers of the hotel bed. Heavy embroidered quilt, followed by wool blanket, followed by light Egyptian cotton sheet.

"It's always kind of exciting, isn't it?" she asks him with a grin, "…doing it in a hotel. It feels elicit or something."

He nods as he stands beside her, and slowly untucks her dusty pink silk blouse from her high waisted pencil shirt, loosening the buttons one by one as he stoops to kiss her neck. She sighs as her fingers weave though his hair and he unzips her skirt, allowing it to slip down her legs and pool at her feet. He sits back on the edge of the mattress and she pushes his unbuttoned Oxford shirt from his shoulders. She shrugs her own blouse off and he lifts his black t-shirt over his head, discarding it on the floor with their collective items of clothing. Her small hands explore his broad chest, fingers forking through the wiry hairs between his pectorals.

She lifts a knee over his thigh and settles in his lap, fingers digging into his thick flexed bicep muscles to steady herself, feeling the cold buckle of his open belt against her exposed upper thigh. His hands slide under her jaw and he guides her face to his. She meets his open mouth with parted lips and their tongues mesh immediately. They kiss – slow and deep as his hands find the clasp of her lace pink bra between her shoulder blades. Expertly, he opens the clasp and slides the straps forward, tickling her skin with his warm, barely-there touch. As the quiet room is filled with the soft sounds of their wet kissing, and their mutual moans of pleasure, his large hands move to fondle her modest breasts – palms kneading, thumbs tweaking perfect erect pink nipples. She begins to rock in his lap, grinding her pelvis against his, matching the rhythm of his groping hands.

He notices the damp crotch of her panties and it makes his mouth water with anticipation. Hands splaying on either side of her torso, fingers feeling her ribs, he lifts her with ease and lies her down on the mattress. Hovering above her, his hands find the elastic waistband of her panties, and he slides them down her thighs, watching them roll and finally bunch at her ankles where he removes and discards them. She attempts to sit up, and her fingers hook under the lace elastic top of one of her black stay-up stockings. She intends to remove them but he stops her, gently pressing her shoulder and urging her to lie back against the pillows once more.

"Leave them on," he whispers, lowering himself to lodge his elbows in the mattress on either side of her knees. She spreads for him and shudders as she feels his breath between her thighs. She feels his fingers parting her folds and then the first, tentative lap of his flattened hot tongue over her throbbing clit. She moans and arches off the bed. He smiles to himself, and settles into place, lodging his whiskered chin against her damp opening and beginning the enthusiastic flick and flutter of his tongue. She hears the wet clicking sounds as his saliva mingles with the dampness of her arousal. His wicked tongue lodges under the hood of her clit – the most sensitive nub, just as he pushes two fingers in to part her already clenching muscles. She comes immediately, and he presses his tongue hard against her clit, pumping his fingers in and out as she slides on them – bucking her hips to him, clutching at the bedlinen and gasping to catch her breath.

"Now how do you feel?" he asks her.

"Amazing," she pants, "you're amazing."

He smiles and bends to kiss her – his greasy tongue in her mouth, greasy fingers on her hipbone.

"Jeans off," she demands, her hands finding the waistband and tugging down.  
He complies, moving off her for a moment to discard his jeans and boxer briefs.

She spreads for him again, bending her knees and sliding her legs up so that her feet are flat on the mattress. He positions himself between her open thighs and holds his hard cock in his hand. He teases her by dipping the head into her entrance to grease it before sliding it out again and rubbing it over her sensitive clit. She arches and her fingernails dig into his fully flexed arms. He grins, satisfied with this response, and repeats the action, watching her gasp and moan whilst he shudders at his own pleasure.

"If you keep doing that…" she whimpers, "I'm gonna come again."

"Ok," he replies, and strokes his cock against her clit once more, causing her eyes to flick shut and her chest to heave. He watches her bottom lip quivering and he positions himself at her wet entrance, plunging into her as her walls contract around his shaft in orgasm.

"Fuck me slowly," she requests, and he nods, bowing his head to slide his tongue into her gaping mouth. They meet in a sloppy kiss as he begins to pump his cock into her – a torturously slow rhythm. She lodges one of her legs at his back, her fingers tracing his spine, moaning softly in his ear. His lips move to her throat and he sucks and bites gently as he continues the primal thrusting and bucking of his hips. She arches her body against his, trying to increase the friction, attempting to get closer – though it is a physical impossibility. He takes it all in – their mingling breath as they pant into each others mouths – the taste of sweat, the sliding and slapping of their naked skin, their shared warmth and he comes, thinking about how he couldn't possibly live without her now. He watches her face; her parted swollen lips, her furrowed brow, her clenched eyes, her flushed cheeks and the sheen of perspiration on her skin as his semen fills her and he can't help but feel sad for what they have lost. He tries to focus on what they still have.

………

In the morning, she finds two of her four limbs dangling over the side of the mattress, blood rushing to her extremities and creating an unpleasant sensation of thousands of pins and needles pricking her skin. She turns to see his long limbs splayed across the mattress as he lies on his back snoring peacefully. He had enjoyed a full night of sleep for the first time in weeks. She smiles and rises from the bed to collect her clothing and dress quickly. After searching for her shoes, she returns to the bed and nudges him a few times until he rolls onto his side. His body is still occupying the centre of the bed, so she lifts one of his arms and slots herself in beside him. She props herself up one elbow to kiss his forehead and his eyes blink open.

"You have clothes on," he grumbles, "_why_ do you have clothes on?"

"I gotta go," she says quietly, "remember I have that conference in New England?"

He groans unpleasantly and nods.

"I have to go home and pack," she adds, kissing him once on the lips before attempting to climb off the bed.

He halts her by grabbing her arm firmly and pulling her onto his chest, grinning, his face half buried in the pillow. She giggles and attempts to struggle and his arm snakes around her small body, holding her in a surprisingly tight grip.

"Gre-e-e-g, leggo!" she giggles.

He tightens his hold yet again.

"My darling," she says, turning and framing his face with her hands, "as much as I want to stay in bed with you, and make love to you all day, I have to get to that conference."

He nods and loosens his grip.

"It means I won't see you for two weeks," she adds.

His eyes widen and he sits bolt upright in bed.

She smiles and returns to his side, leaning in for a more substantial kiss.

"I'll be on my cell – call me."

…….

He had called her eight times in the first week and four times within the first two days of the second week. Having her as a constant presence in his life had substantially lessened his tolerance for loneliness and over the past week and two days he had sated his craving for human company (albeit not the sexual kind) by regularly calling on Wilson. Whenever Wilson could find time out of his busy wedding planning schedule, he would grace his friend with warm company, cold beer and DVDs.

On the Wednesday evening, as Wilson is inserting the DVD of _"The Departed,"_ into the machine, the shrill ring of the phone interrupts their banter and Wilson tosses House a look that says: "well, aren't you going to answer it?"

House reclines in his chair, tosses a salted peanut above his head and leans back to catch it in his open mouth before responding: "machine'll get it."

Wilson nods, and House grins to himself as he hears his own voice reciting the message: "You've reached Greg and Lee House, we're not in to take your call, and even if we were, we probably wouldn't be interested in talking to you. Leave a message – _if you must_ – but be warned, we are _unlikely_ to return your call."

The machine beeps and House sits straight in his chair at the sound of Lee's soft Australian accent.

"Greg it's Lee. I'm just calling to say…well, don't get your hopes up but my period is overdue and I've been vomiting all day so unless I ate some bad shellfish at the buffet…"

House's eyes widen and he shoots Wilson a look before lunging out of his chair and quickly making a grab for the phone.

"I'm here," he tells her.

"I didn't eat any shell fish," she responds, "I hate seafood."

"Under-cooked chicken?"

"Um, no…"

"Period – how overdue?"

"About two weeks."

"Fuck me. Well, did you do the peeing on the stick thing?"

"Not yet… see, I'm not sure, cos my periods have been all out of wack ever since I went off the pill… and I could have a virus or something, I didn't have morning sickness with the other pregnancy…"

"Do you have a fever…aches and pains?" he asks, his speech harried, "no, scrap that…they can be symptoms of pregnancy too. You'll need a blood test. Pee on the stick and call me back."

"Ok…" she says, "fingers crossed. Love you."

He glances at Wilson sideways, before quietly adding: "you too."

He places the phone back in its cradle, smiling to himself before straightening his expression and turning to face Wilson.

"So…what did she say?" Wilson enquires excitedly.

"Um, not sure yet… gotta do some mumbo jumbo magic tests and then a real medical test…"

"Ok, well…it sounds promising…"

House grits his teeth, attempting to stop the smile from breaking.

"Yeah…" he replies, "she's peeing on the stick…gonna call back, so..."

He gestures to the door and Wilson simply stares, dumbfounded.

"Ah hell," house exclaims, "I'm trying to be polite, but you're not getting the message. Go!"

Wilson nods quickly and drops the DVD case onto the nearby sofa before rushing to the front door and collecting his overcoat.

"Ok, well… good luck," Wilson says, waving once before leaving, shutting the door behind him.

As soon as he hears the door close, a wide smile spreads across House's face and he breaks into raucous laughter.


	51. LI – Blood

**A/N:**

I'm so grateful that people are still reading this!

Thanks to everyone who is persevering with this story - and for all of your lovely comments,

Much love!

* * *

**LI – Blood**

The shrill ring of the phone causes him jump out of his seat. He snatches the handset from its cradle.

"Yep," he spits.

"Ok, there are two pink crosses," she says, "according to the instructions, that's a positive result."

It seems too good to be true.

"You should get the blood test," he says, "I want to be sure."

"Ok," she says, "You know best. I don't want to make an appointment here, I want to come home early."

"Good," he cannot argue with this, "when?"

"I'll catch the next available flight. Hopefully I'll be back tonight around seven-ish."

"I'll make an appointment for you at a 24 hour clinic," he says.

"Ok…good…thanks."

There is a temporary silence. Empty, but comfortable.

"Greg."

"Yeah?"

"I spent years trying not to get pregnant… I never _ever_ thought I would be so happy to see two pink crosses on a pregnancy test."

"I never ever thought I would be so pleased at the prospect of having knocked someone up."

She laughs.

"So I'll see you around 7:30ish?" she asks.

"I'll pick you up from the airport and we can go straight to the clinic."

"Ok.'

………

On the plane, for some of the time she sleeps.

Odd – she has never been able to sleep on planes – it is the most unnatural, curious environment – to be sleeping in the presence of so many other unknown primates.

She dreams about water and sky and something – something to do with the trip.

Endless blue.

The dream is disconnected, hazy – just a serious of random images, colours and shapes.

She jolts awake suddenly, startling the woman beside her. She has felt something. Something familiar.

She recognises the soft flutter in her womb.

"Are you ok honey?" the woman asks, peering over her thick framed reading glasses, concern evident in her expression and her voice.

"Ah, yeah," Lee replies, smiling, "I'm good."

The woman nods and returns her smile.

Lee settles back in her seat, rearranging the wool blanket, pulling it up to her shoulders, turning on her side and continuing to smile to herself.

………

At the airport she spots him immediately, standing tall above everyone else, leaning on his cane. He is unmistakable, a real character – her Greg. Messy greying hair, bright blue eyes, three day growth of whiskers. Unshaven, unkempt. He scrutinises the crowd, meticulously eyeing every passer – watching for her.

Her smile comes uncontrollably, spreading across her face. She loves seeing him waiting for her at the airport. She feels like she is home even though she is in a public place. He smiles knowingly and wraps his arms around her – his heavy black coat opening with his arms, almost hiding her completely from the crowd.

"Hi."

"Hi."

"How are you?"

"Well I vomited about five times on the plane – and I slept a lot."

"Good," he says enthusiastically.

She rolls her eyes. "Yeah Great – they actually had nice food this time around, and I couldn't even keep it down."

"Hmmm," he mutters, and his expression tells her that he has gone into doctor mode again, "I guess any turbulence would have made it worse… a virus would have only lasted about 24 hours…"

"I _am_ pregnant," she announces, interrupting his spiel before he is able sprout any more medical jargon or differential diagnoses, "I can feel it."

He regards her doubtfully.

"Well let's find out for sure, huh?"

She nods and bends to retrieve the handbag she had taken into the cabin as her carry-on luggage, but he swoops down, playfully slaps her hand away and snatches it from her. She giggles and allows him to take it.

"No heavy lifting," he says with a wink.

………

He holds her hand tightly in the waiting room of the clinic.

She doesn't know whether she is happier just to see him again, or whether it is the thought that she may have his baby growing inside her. She never imagined herself in this position, at one stage she even thought of it as her worst nightmare. She had been in love before and yet there had never been a man whose baby she would consider having. She imagined that if she ever fell pregnant, it would be an accident. She never imagined actually _planning_ to get pregnant. The thought had once filled her with fear, but now she only feels a warm, glowing contentment. The way she feels about this pregnancy reflects the intensity of her love for him. She knows it is not just the biological urge that most women have. She thinks less of woman who want a baby simply as a play thing – just for the sake of it. Her elation about this pregnancy is more to do with the fact that it is _his_ baby. She feels as if it would be a privilege to have his child. Sometimes the intensity of her love shocks her – it feels unnatural, a force to be reckoned with.

He has a _'Time'_ magazine propped on his right knee, and he flips through the pages quickly with his free hand, seemingly uninterested in its contents.

She turns her hand over, the fingers of his left hand still tangled with hers. She lifts their joined hands to her face, inspecting his wedding band.

The ring – simple, plain, platinum, symbolic.

It is unpretentious, strong, _real_, like their relationship.

She kisses his hand and he turns to her and smiles.

………

He is his usual rude, pushy self as they are paying at the counter.

"How long til you call us?" he barks at the receptionist.

"Twenty-four to forty-eight hours," the woman replies.

"Twenty-four…" he starts, "no, that won't do. You have no idea of what an arduous task it's been for me to try and knock her up!"

The woman wrinkles her nose in disgust and Lee simply grins, prodding at the cotton-ball taped to the inside of her elbow. She is amused and not at all surprised by this comment.

"We need to know as soon as possible," he adds.

"We can put a priority notice on it, but it will cost an extra forty-five dollars," the woman says.

He opens his wallet and places a fifty dollar bill on the counter with a slap of his hand.

"Do that," he says.

………

She settles into the passenger seat, adjusting her seatbelt over her shoulder before gently rolling the sleave of her pale lemon coloured v-neck sweater down over the cotton-ball bandage and her forearm.

She watches him, staring out through the windshield, one hand gripping the steering wheel in that lazy cool way he drives.

She recognises the expression on his face – pensive, broody, dark.

She knows this all too well. He is over thinking, over analysing, imagining the worst. She knows that next come the cold stares, dismissive grunts and the distance between them.

But knowing his moods – being able to predict them, puts her one step ahead. She has the chance to intervene before things get out of hand.

"I know what you're thinking," she says and he turns to her immediately.

"Oh?!" he snaps, narrowing his eyes at her.

Sure enough, there is a viciousness to his tone, an iciness to his piercing stare.

It is as if the temperature in the car has dropped – suddenly and dramatically.

She proceeds, nonetheless.

"You're thinking: what if the test comes back negative," she says.

She realises that while she has already accepted that she _is_ pregnant – and has begun to think and act accordingly, he will not accept the notion. He needs facts – evidence. It is as if he believes that it is too good to be true.

There is a long pause before he sighs and turns to her.

"What if you're not pregnant?" his voice is soft again, "or what if something goes wrong again? What if we can't have a family?"

She smiles and reaches across to place a hand gently on his knee.

"Then it will be ok," she says, "we already have a family – it's just you and I, but we are a family."

He nods and stares out through the windscreen again.

……….

"Oh I missed home!" she exclaims, throwing her handbag onto the sofa and kneeling to accept the smelly messy greeting from the dog.

"You mean: you missed _House_," he says, discarding her suitcase by the door and holding her arms as she stands in front of him.

He is smiling again and it makes her incredibly happy.

"Yes," she says, sinking into his embrace.

She leads him to the sofa and sits beside him and then her lips are pecking at his cheek, his forehead, his nose. Her fingers are tracing his ear and playing with his earlobe. He turns his head to catch her mouth with his.

"You know it's been exactly two hundred and forty three hours since I last saw you," he mumbles against her lips, "two hundred and forty nine since we last had sex…"

"Well that's not exactly true," she corrects him, "we had phone sex last Wednesday – don't tell me you forget."

"Oh, I remember," he says, "you had started without me and so you practically came as soon as I answered the phone."

"I couldn't help it," she giggles, "I bought new lingerie and I started thinking about showing it to you – next thing I knew, I was on the bed touching myself and I just had to hear your voice."

"Oh god," he moans, dragging his lips over her neck, "you can show me now…"

She moans into his mouth as his hands dip under the hem of her sweater, fingertips making patterns around her navel, while her own hands are at his back – making circles on the fabric of his shirt.

They are rudely interrupted by the phone, and at first they both choose to ignore it, continuing with their rigorously enthusiastic kissing.

After a moment, a sudden realisation hits her and she pulls back from him.

"The results!" she exclaims, and his eyes widen before he reaches behind the arm of the sofa to answer the phone.

"Hello?" he says, eagerly waiting for the caller to identify themselves.

"Yes," he says, nodding, his eyes fixed with hers.

Her hands clench into fists and her entire body becomes tense. She has already guessed the results, but she is awaiting confirmation for his sake, so that it may put his mind to rest.

"Yes," he says, "yes, what is her current beta HCG level?"

She raises an eyebrow.

"Ok, what about her progesterone levels?"

She feels the unpleasant sensation of anxiety beginning to creep. This conversation is taking too long, the expression on his face is too sombre, he is asking too many questions.

"Ok good," he says finally, "thank you."

He replaces the phone on its cradle and she grasps his arm.

"What did they say?"

"Your beta HCG and progesterone levels are good…" he starts.

"Lay language Greg," she pleads with him.

"Ah, beta human chorionic gonadotrophin and progesterone are two hormones detected to increase in pregnant women," he explains, "the progesterone helps to build the lining of the uterus for the fertilised egg to implant into, and the HCG hormone starts to be released into the woman's blood stream soon after the zygote has implanted into the lining of her uterus."

She stares at him blankly.

"Ok," she says, "what do my HCG and progesterone levels tell us?"

"Yours are good. HCG is 10 and progesterone is 23 – that's nice and stable, good high numbers. It's regarded as a positive pregnancy test, but…"

"But?!" she demands, feeling the palpitations of her heart.

"I think you should get tests over the next few weeks – every 2 or 3 days. We need to monitor the levels. If they continue to increase, it's likely that the pregnancy will continue, if they start to decrease, that's a sign that pregnancy will, or is in the process of miscarrying."

She releases a long shuddering sigh, holding her hand to her mouth – hot tears burning behind her eyes.

He watches her reaction, obviously aware that his 'physician-to-patient' style delivery has frightened her.

"Hey," he says warmly, smiling and kissing her forehead, "don't worry, this is all standard procedure, the most important thing is that you're pregnant!"

His apparent joy is all she needs to recover her own.

She slings an arm around his shoulders, burring her face in the crook of her neck.

"Come here," he says, standing and taking her hand.

She stands and follows him to the bookshelf on the far wall. He rummages through their CD collection, tossing cases aside, finally selecting one.

He opens the lid of the stereo and drops the CD into place.

An electric guitar riff and the strong backbeat of a punk-rock song begins.

"What's this?" she asks, grinning.

"Celebratory sex music," he replies, brushing her hair from her shoulder so that he is able to swoop and kiss her neck, "'_Penetration_,' by Iggy Pop and the Stooges."

"Ah," she responds with a laugh, "very appropriate."

He advances on her, backing her through the open door of their bedroom until her legs bump against the bed and she jolts and falls back to sit on the mattress.

He gestures for her to raise her arms and pulls her sweater over her head, swiftly discarding it on the floor. She reaches up, wrapping an arm around his neck and pulling him into a deep, open mouthed kiss. He leans into her and they fall back on the mattress together, shuffling to lie straight with their heads on the pillows before continuing their enthusiastic groping and kissing. The movements match the pace of the music – a steady, dirty rhythm.

His hands fumble down between their bodies and he manages to pop the button on her grey jeans and ease the zipper open.

She clutches his thick upper arms – his flexed biceps, and gasps against his mouth as his hand slips behind the gaping fly of her jeans and his fingers press at her clit through the thin cotton material of her white panties. She grinds herself against him, moaning and flicking her tongue into his mouth and all the while their activities are narrated by Iggy Pop screaming: _"Penetraaaaate, penetraaaaate me!"_

"Oh my god!" she exclaims.

"I know," he moans with delight – one hand groping her breast, the other inside her jeans, "this is way better than phone sex."

"No," she mutters, clutching his forearms and pulling back from him abruptly.

The colour appears to have drained from her cheeks – her skin has a distinctive pallor and her brow: a sheen of perspiration.

"I think I'm going to…" before she is able to finish the sentence she turns and leaps from the foot of the bed. She launches herself into the bathroom, catching her hand on the door frame and swinging around to drop on her knees in front of the toilet.

He raises a brow as he hears the inelegant sounds of her retching echo in the small tiled bathroom.

Sighing, he straightens himself out, eases off the bed and hobbles – sans cane, nursing a throbbing erection – to join her in the bathroom.

"Well I've been rejected once or twice in my life," he says, watching her heaving and gasping, embracing the bowl, "but this is the first time a woman has vomited at the prospect of sleeping with me."

Slowly, she raises her head to look at him. Her eyes seem dark and her lashes are heavy. She blinks at him – once, twice, and then her expression cracks – her bottom lip quivers and she begins to sob.

"Hey, hey, hey," he coos – surprising himself with the softness of his tone, "it was just a joke."

With great effort, he kneels beside her, draping one long arm around her trembling, bare shoulders. She is dressed only in her jeans and white lace bra.

"I know," she wails, hiccupping and wiping her nose with a square of toilet paper, "but we haven't seen each other for two hundred and something-or-other hours and I really wanted to…"

"You know those flannelette pyjamas of yours – the really hideous hot pinks ones with the rabbits?" he says, interrupting her.

She nods.

"I'll go get them – you run yourself a bath, and we'll have Vegemite toast for dinner, ok?"

She smiles. "Ok."


	52. LII Glow

**A/N:**

I know I gush about it every time, but it really floors me to see that people are still interested in this story. I can't thank you guys enough for your dedication and loyalty, and for the effort you put into leaving such lovely reviews.

hugs

**

* * *

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**LII - Glow**

Conversing with his team in the conference room, House turns to see Cuddy in his office.

"No more lunch time booty calls," he yells to her, "I'm married now!"

"House," she says, moving to the adjoining door, "may I speak to you for a moment, it's important."

"Go ahead – shoot."

"_Alone,"_ she clarifies with a raised eyebrow.

Her expression is somewhat solemn and it intrigues him.

He turns back to the three doctors seated around the glass table.

"Class dismissed," he says, "do an MRI on the kid, and Forman you talk to the mom."

Chase, Forman and Cameron collect their various files and papers and leave the room, marching in an orderly line like good soldiers.

Cuddy enters the room and stands before House.

"Do you have any idea where your wife is?" she asks.

"No," he replies, "why is it that everyone seems to think I have a tracking device on her?"

Cuddy sighs as he presses a thumb under his chin and peers at the ceiling in mock contemplation.

"Actually," he says, "maybe that's not such a bad idea."

"Lee hasn't turned up to work, and she hasn't answered the numerous phone calls the reception staff have made to her cell phone," Cuddy says, pursing her lips.

House narrows his eyes at her, worry settling across his brow in the form of deep creases.

"When was the last time you saw her?" she asks.

"This morning," he says, finding no further place for humour, "she was still in bed when I left. She usually leaves about an hour after I do."

"Is there anything she had planned for today, any..?" Cuddy is interrupted as House rushes past her into his office.

"House…" she inquires, following him into the room.

He collects his cell phone, wallet and keys and drops them into his knapsack, before slinging it over his shoulder and striding past Cuddy once more – through the main entrance to his office.

………

"Lee," he calls, once inside the front door of their apartment.

All is quiet. He notices her car keys and cell phone still in their place – on the side table by the door. The dog waggles his tail in greeting but doesn't budge from his place on the sofa amongst the cushions.

House drops his knapsack and quickly makes his way toward the bedroom.

"Lee!" he calls, louder this time.

He approaches the door to the bedroom and she emerges, almost colliding with him.

She squints at him and rubs a hand across her brow. She is still wearing her pyjamas – a little ivory lace cotton camisole and matching shorts.

Her skin is paler than usual – a ghostly white and by the expression on her face she appears to be disoriented.

"Why aren't you at work?" he asks, "everyone has been trying to contact you."

"Hmph," she mumbles quietly, "I was… sleeping."

She furrows her brow and clutches the door frame to steady herself.

"You didn't get up after I left for work?" he enquires.

She shakes her head slowly before dropping it forward, leaning heavily on the archway for support.

"I guess not," she mutters, blinking.

Her hand slips from the door frame and she jolts forward, leaning closer and closer to the floor.

"Whoa," he exclaims, quickly discarding his cane and slipping his arms under hers.

Her body is now draped limply against his, her eyes closed and her mouth slack as her face is pressed into the material of his shirt.

With much effort, he is able to squat and hook one of his arms under her knees. He tips her back, so that the majority of her weight is pressed to his chest and he slings one of her arms over his shoulder.

Gripping the door frame with one hand, and keeping a secure hold of her with the other, he stands, grunting as every one of his muscles protest.

Despite her light weight and petite frame, each step towards the bed is agony – a searing pain emanating from his thigh.

He stumbles into the bedroom and slumps onto the mattress, heaving her forward and catching his breath before gently rearranging her amongst the bedsheets.

He turns his hand over and presses it to her forehead, checking her body temperature – feeling her skin burning against his.

The jingle of the dog's collar can be heard as he rushes through the door and leaps up onto the bed, whimpering as he settles in beside Lee's resting body.

"Oh, _now_ you're concerned," House says, eyeing the mutt with a certain contempt, "so much for the stories about super dogs rescuing their owners from peril!"

The dog watches him with big brown eyes.

"You suck!" he chastises, "get out."

He points to the door and the dog follows his instructions, jumping from the bed and slinking out of the room.

House stands and hobbles back to the doorway, clutching his thigh. Leaning on the door frame, he sinks his hand into the pocket of his blazer and retrieves the plastic vile of Vicodin – quickly popping the lid, shaking two pills out, dropping them into his mouth and swallowing them dry. Replacing the bottle in his pocket, he retrieves his cane and limps down the hall and across the lounge room to a desk by the far wall.

Pulling out drawer after drawer, he finally retrieves a stethoscope and a sphygmomanometer before making his way back to the bedroom.

He sits beside her on the mattress and she stirs, opening her eyes and blinking at him.

"Wha…" she starts.

"You passed out," he says, placing the buds of the stethoscope in his ears.

She frowns and moans in distress, attempting to sit up, but he lodges a hand on her shoulder and presses her to the mattress.

"Just stay still for a moment," he says, "I'm going to check you out."

He gets to work – listening to her heart and her pulse with the stethoscope, sliding the cuff of the sphygmomanometer over her slender arm and inflating it – reading the screen with a furrowed brow before deflating and removing it.

After discarding the implements on the bedside table, he offers her a slight smile.

"You've got low blood pressure and a bit of a high temperature," he says.

"What does that mean?" she asks.

"Well they're pretty normal symptoms of pregnancy," he replies, "as the uterus swells, it compresses the arteries in your legs which makes your blood pressure drop and can make you pass out, especially if you stand up suddenly."

"But I feel _so tired _– like I could sleep forever," she says.

"Well hopefully that's just a side effect of rapidly increasing levels of progesterone – as is the high temperature."

She nods, a thoughtful expression registering on her face.

"If you're that tired, you obviously need the rest," he says, "I'll call in and tell them you've got a virus or something."

"Mmm, ok."

He kisses her forehead and she smiles and settles back against the pillows.

He makes a call to the hospital from the kitchen before returning to the bedroom.

He sits on the edge of the bed and removes his Converse All Star sneakers one by one, tossing them to the opposite side of the room before standing, unbuttoning and unzipping his jeans and letting them fall to the floor.

"Whatcha doing?" she asks, grinning at him with drowsy eyes.

He loosens the buttons on his blue oxford shirt, shrugging it off so that he stands before her in his boxer-briefs, t-shirt and socks.

"Well I'm already home," he says, "no sense going back to work and then coming back _again_. Besides, I've never been a _'nine to five'_ sort of guy."

He sits on the bed again, leaning down to lift his right leg up onto the mattress.

"Good look, huh?" he says, gesturing to his garb.

He slips beneath the blankets with her and she scoots closer to him, giggling as she nudges his sock covered feet with her own bare toes.

"You're so sexy," she teases, chuckling against his shirt, settling into his embrace.

"Shhh," he laughs at her, "I thought you were tired, go back to sleep."

………

When she awakens, she is able to tell that it is late afternoon because the sun has moved over the sky and is now shining past the trees by the side of their townhouse and in through the window, casting mottled shadows over the bedcovers.

House is still sleeping beside her, snoring gently, one hand shoved under his pillow and the other clutching the bed sheets at his waist.

She smiles, sits up and leans over him, dragging a thumb across his cheek, enjoying the raspy sensation of his whiskers against her skin.

She bends to kiss his nose.

His snoring stills and his eyes flick open.

"Hello," she whispers.

"Hi," he croaks.

He blinks and looks around the room. "What time is it?"

"I think it's about four pm," she replies, pushing the covers back and lying down against him.

She slips a hand under his chin, cradling his jaw and her thumb plays over his lips before she leans in to kiss them.

She moans as grinds her body against his.

"Feeling better?" he enquires, raising an eyebrow.

"I'm feeling _much_ better," she replies, "and I'm also feeling rather horny."

He lifts a hand, meaning to press it against her forehead to gauge her temperature, but she snatches his wrist and turns him over so that he lays flat on the mattress. She pins his arm in place while she lifts her leg over his hips, lowering her body to sit straddling his lap.

"Oh," he exclaims in surprise, "ok!"

"You wanna find out how hot I am?" she jokes, grinning at him from above.

She reaches down, grasping the lace hem of her camisole, before crossing her arms in front of herself and lifting it over her head in one swift movement – discarding it on the bed as her dishevelled red hair swishes around her shoulders.

His eyes widen as her bare chest is exposed to him, and she takes both of his hands in her own, lifting them to hold them against her pert breasts.

He squeezes them gently, letting his fingers caress her soft, supple skin and she whimpers.

"Did that hurt?" he asks, alarmed.

"No it's ok," she says, "they're just a little tender."

"Oh," he smiles widely, "you're _so_ pregnant."

She leans down, pressing her breasts to his chest and catching his open mouth in a kiss. His hands move to her thighs, travelling higher and higher, finally caressing the curve of her buttock under her cotton shorts.

With her hands working between their bodies, she struggles to bunch his t-shirt around his chest so that she may feel her skin against his, all the while kissing and nibbling at his cheeks, chin and throat.

"You're not going to vomit on me are you?" he teases, grinning at her.

She smacks him playfully.

"Don't you want to get laid?" she says, her voice assuming a mock threatening tone.

"Oh yes," he says, taking her arm and pulling her body back against his, "yes I do – very much."

She rolls off of him, keeping a hand on his cheek and guiding his face to hers so that their mouths meet again, while her free hand slips down, groping over his blue boxer shorts.

He moans and flinches as her clumsy groping becomes more decisive and targeted – her palm gently kneading the rising point of his cock through his briefs. She notices a dampness – and breaking the kiss to look down, she spies tiny droplets of his pre-cum seeping through the material, turning it from a light to a dark blue. She smiles – this only rouses her more – makes her _hungry._

She feels her mouth generating saliva in anticipation of her feast.

She makes a sudden movement down his body until her face is level with his hips.

Without a moments delay, she tugs his boxer shorts down his thighs and his erection stands straight and proud before her. He shudders and arches off the bed as her hand envelops his cock, fingers wrapping around the base and nestling into the wiry, greying curls. She leans down and flicks her tongue out, immediately swirling it around the pulsing, leaking head.

He writhes beneath her, his movements restricted by the elastic waistband of his boxers around his legs and her hand on his hip.

She places a firm kiss on the end of his cock now, before her lips part around it and she eases the length of him into her hot wet mouth. Her head bobs in his lap as she begins to suck him gently until she feels his fingertips scurrying under her chin, tilting her head up to meet his gaze. He gives her an expression that says he can't hold out for much longer if she is to continue her ministrations and taking this cue, she carefully removes him – her lips dragging over his cock in one final blissful stroke.

He takes hold of her arms and manoeuvres her so that he is able to pin her beneath him on the mattress, and he struggles for a moment, pushing his boxer-briefs down to his knees to free his movements. He tears his shirt over his head, discarding it beside them and bends to catch her mouth in another lascivious kiss, before straightening up and kneeling in front of her.

She is laughing hysterically at him now – kneeling in the centre of the bed – naked except for his socks and his briefs bunched around his knees. He grins, and reaching out to grasp each of her ankles, he drags her body across the bed. He snatches two pillows and gestures for her to lift her hips. She complies with him, hooking her thumbs behind the elastic of her cotton shorts and easing them down her thighs, kicking them from her feet before lowering her back to meet the pillows. With a hand placed on each of her knees, he gently parts her legs and positions himself between them. She is open for him – wet and waiting. Holding his cock, he guides himself into her while she hooks her ankles at his back. She gasps and rolls her hips as he pushes in deep. His head drops back – his eyes shut and there is a low gurgling sound in his throat. Then his head drops forward as he begins to make the first steady thrusts into her – watching himself sliding in and out of her body, over and over – the shaft of his cock glistening, glazed with the cream of her arousal.

"Oh god," he moans, his hands on her hips – his fingers desperately clawing at her skin as he attempts to keep a firm hold while pulling her body back against his.

"Ungh," she manages to mutter, "sssso good."

She arches her back, and he groans because the elevated angle of her hips allows him to slide in deeper.

"Touch me," she purrs, and one of his hands moves from her hip, between their joined bodies and he begins to rub his fingers over her clit in a quick, rough flicking motion.

"Oh yeah," she moans, feeling the searing hot tingling pleasure of the friction from his fingertips, "fuck that's good."

She alternates between making circular hip movements and rocking her pelvis from side to side, meeting each of his thrusts.

He uses his thumb now – kneading her clit and there is enough slipperiness but also enough pressure to trigger her climax.

All she can think about is how _hard_ he is inside her, and she focuses her attention on the relentless punch of his thrusts as she comes – moving against him with a wave like motion of her hips, her inner muscles gripping and rippling around his cock. The pleasure washes over her, making her tingle from head to foot – a sensation so intense but she cannot decide whether it feels hot or cold.

She releases a gasp, a prolonged sigh and he quickens the pace of his thrusts – watching her, staring with such intensity until his movements still, his eyes flick shut and his entire body shudders with the force of his orgasm. She smiles as she feels him spilling inside her and then moments later his chest is pressed against hers, her thighs are at either side of his hips and she is kissing his forehead.

They are moist and hot in each others arms – the bedsheets, their discarded clothing – the entire room smells of their sex.

Sweat, saliva, cum.

He lifts his head to look at her and she traces a finger over the little crease at the bridge of his nose.

"We have to go…" he murmurs, still panting from the exertion.

"Huh?" she questions him.

"Your blood test," he says, "we need to see if your hormone levels are increasing."

………

"You're worried," she says to him as they sit side by side in the waiting room of the clinic.

"What?" he questions her – speaking a little two quickly as he turns his attention from the chart on the wall with the words in red bold letters asking: _'are your vaccinations up to date?'_

"About the baby…" she says, "about my pregnancy."

"No," he says, and the tone of his voice is not nearly convincing enough, "it'll be ok."

A woman dressed all in white – white skirt, blouse, stockings and sneakers emerges from the door at the end of the hall.

"House, Lee House," she calls, reading from the chart in her hands.

Lee stands, collecting her handbag from the blue vinyl chair beside her.

House stands with her, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

"I'm coming in with you," he says.

"I've had many blood tests," she says, "I'll be fine."

"I know," he says, walking beside her down the hall – following the woman in white, guiding her with his hand still firmly gripping her shoulder.

"Not worried, hey?" she teases him.

………

He leans against the far wall, the handle of his cane hooked over his crossed arms, eyebrow raised as watches the woman in white prepare the syringe.

He scrutinises her every move – the way she swabs Lee's skin, the way she tightens the tourniquet, the way she uncaps the needle point, as if he is imagining that he could do the job ten times better.

Lee is the perfect patient, lying still and flat on the examination bed, staring at the ceiling and breathing deeply.

"It says on the chart that you are monitoring your progesterone and HCG levels?" the woman asks, obviously attempting to distract Lee as she pricks the surface of her skin with the needle.

Lee gasps quietly before responding, "yes."

"You're pregnant?! Lovely!" the woman coos, "and just look at you, you're positively _glowing!_"

House pushes off the wall, propelling himself forward using his cane – the rubber tip and the soles of his Nikes squelching on the linoleum floor.

"Yep," he says, standing beside the woman in white – his lanky frame towering over her and casting an ominous shadow, "but that's because we engaged in a session of vigorous sex _just_ before we came here."

He offers her a grin and she widens her eyes – her cheeks flushing as she draws the needle from Lee's arm.

"Do us a favour and slap a priority notice on the results will ya… Margaret?" he says, leaning in to read the woman's name badge.

She nods quickly, averting her gaze from House and detaching the blood filled tube from the syringe, placing it in a plastic bag with a fluorescent yellow priority notice.

………

It is unspoken, but their shared anxiety is palpable as they wait together in the living room.

Eyeing the silent telephone, he paces restlessly behind the sofa where she sits, flipping through the pages of a trashy magazine. She pauses, her eyes skimming over an article titled: _"Can Your Relationship Handle a Baby?"_

She hears him sigh, and he stops and leans over her, snatching the magazine from her hands and hurling it across the room so that it lands with a flutter, pages splayed on the floor beside the television.

"Don't read that junk," he says, giving her hair a quick affectionate stroke before resuming his pacing.

Her knee begins to bounce and her hands fiddle with the covers of the sofa cushions. She jolts suddenly as the phone rings but she is paralysed, and he lunges beside her – snatching the hand set.

"Hello?" he speaks into the receiver.

He nods. "Good, good, yes, yes."

He smiles at her, eyes twinkling as he continues to nod and her anxiety dissipates like sunrays cutting through heavy grey rain clouds.

He places the phone back in its cradle, smacks his hands together and rubs them with glee.

"Progesterone and HCG levels steadily increasing," he says, "your body is turning into the _perfect_ little baby incubator!"


	53. LIII Three

**LIII - Three**

They wait until the traditional three month mark, until she is safely through the first trimester of her pregnancy before they begin sharing their news.

She calls her parents and her mother squeals down the phone, insisting on buying plane tickets and arriving in time for the birth and Lee cringes, momentarily regretting having told her. Although it was inevitable – it was not like she could reveal the news on the child's sixth birthday: _"oh by the way mum, you have a grandchild, oops, that just slipped my mind!"_

And although the fussing and gushing will be inconvenient, she knows she will find her mother's help and support to be invaluable.

She doesn't know a great deal about Greg's parents. He hasn't told her much, and she hasn't pressed him for information. She is sure, however, that his mother is a good woman. She is kind and decent – she has a gentle demeanour and caring eyes – just like Greg's. She feels somewhat excited at the prospect of sharing the news with Blythe House. She feels an innate bond with the woman, though their meetings have only been brief.

It is a Sunday, and she walks home from the bakery at the corner, swinging a plastic bag – containing the morning's fresh baked bread – from her wrist.

Unfortunately, the smell of the bread, while on any other day would be heavenly, had caused her stomach to flip, and she had to hunch over a nearby dumpster retching into it like a junkie, as an elderly couple passed her by, shaking their heads disapprovingly.

She shuffles into the kitchen now, to find Greg seated at the table with a bowl of cocoa puffs (the puffs of wheat have lost their colour, turning the milk a chocolate brown) and a disembowelled newspaper – pages splayed out.

"Your baby keeps making me vomit in public," she says, placing the bag of bread on the counter-top.

He smiles to himself. Without looking up from the paper he says: "_our_ baby."

"I don't know why they call it morning sickness," she says, "it's more like morning-noon-and-night-sickness. I vomit randomly, at any time of the day. I don't know how many times I've had to excuse myself from a session with a client because I've felt a wave of nausea."

"That's good," he says, grinning at her, "research has demonstrated that women who suffer frequent bouts of morning sickness are far less likely to miscarry, or to give birth to babies with deformities. You see, morning sickness is more common in the stages of pregnancy when the baby's vital organs are forming, and it is hypothesized that morning sickness deters women from eating less healthy foods – foods that will not contribute to the baby's development."

"What, like bread?" she challenges him sarcastically, gesturing to the loaf she had carted home. "Don't worry, it will stop soon," he replies, "you're heading into your second trimester, morning sickness is far less common then."

She nods, approaching him.

"Hey, would you like to call your parents and tell them the news, or should I do it?" she asks, combing her fingers through the soft greying hair at his temples.

"You can do it," he says, mouth full of cocoa puffs, eyeing her momentarily before casting his gaze back to the newspaper.

"I think your mother would like to hear the news from you, Greg."

He looks at her again.

"Oh, alright," he says, rolling his eyes like a petulant child who has been ordered to do his algebra homework, "I'll break the news, but then you have to get on the line and field the rest of the questions – take the brunt of the gushing and cooing."

"Ok," she says, grinning, "but I have already endured my fair share of gushing. I spoke to _my_ mother, remember."

He nods, begrudgingly, shovelling another mouthful of cocoa puffs into his mouth.

………

"She wants to talk to you," he says, holding the cordless phone out to Lee.

His mother had cried – sobbed quietly and happily when he had broken the news, and it made his heart jolt, he swallowed a lump in his throat and the tiny hairs on his arms stood on end.

Lee smiles and takes the phone from him. She greets his mother, giggles and mutters a few words and before he knows it, she is crying too.

It is the strangest display of human emotion, because she is beaming – smiling widely, a joyous expression and yet the tears stream down her cheeks as she continues to nod and talk into the phone.

When the conversation ends, and she returns the phone to its cradle, he feels the overwhelming urge to hug her.

"Sorry," she says, pressing her face against his t-shirt "hormones."

"No," he says, "it's ok."

He thinks it is actually rather nice, but he won't tell her this.

………

They don't hold hands as they enter the cafeteria together. It's not their style. Neither of them are into blatant public displays of affection, but they may as well be – because their hands bump together as they swing by their sides, he leans against her as they talk and she nonchalantly picks specks of lint from his blazer.

"Well if it isn't beauty and the beast," Wilson says, as they approach his table, "I hear congratulations are in order."

"Yeah, I knocked her up," House announces loudly, causing a few heads to turn.

Lee sits in the chair opposite Wilson, and makes a show of popping the button on her blazer, opening it to reveal her bump – small but obvious under her fitted blouse.

"Three months," she says, smiling as her hand rests proudly on her belly.

House knows that Wilson has been very much aware of Lee's state. After all, he had been in the room on the day that Lee had first announced the news over the answering machine. He had simply been politely awaiting confirmation.

"Everything going well?" Wilson inquires.

Lee gives a small nod, apparently wishing to avoid jinxing herself.

House gives a more definite nod, taking a seat beside Wilson.

"We've had the first ultrasounds. Heard the heartbeat, seen the spine, head, arms and legs. Everything seems to be in order."

"So have you chosen an obstetrician?" Wilson asks, "who's going to handle the delivery?"

"I am," House says, taking one of Wilson's fries.

Lee and Wilson exchange incredulous expressions.

"You are?" Lee asks.

"Yep," House says, grinning – the end of a French fry protruding from the corner of his mouth.

"Oh, I don't know Greg," she says, "that's a bit weird. Of course I want you in there with me, but I want you sitting _next to_ me – holding my hand, up this end, not down… _that_ end…"

"Yeah, you're not a qualified…" Wilson starts.

"What?" House contends, "obstetrician? So? I've delivered a baby before."

"You have?" Wilson raises an eyebrow.

"Yeah," House replies, patting Lee's shoulder, amused by her reluctance, "you're in good hands…"

"Darling…" she starts.

She often begins a sentence with this term of endearment when she intends to say something he may find disagreeable.

"There is no-one I would trust more with our baby than you," she continues, "_but_, do you think…"

"Obstetricians do nothing," he interrupts her, "they just watch and say push a couple of times. I can do that just as well as the next guy. Besides, I know my way around your vagina better than anyone else does!"

Wilson cringes and Lee laughs at his reaction.

"James," she says, standing so that the chair scrapes along the linoleum in protest, "could you do us a favour and compile a list of potential obstetricians?"

He nods and Lee turns to House.

"I'm going back to work," she says, squeezing his arm affectionately, "text me what you want for dinner."

………

He hears her footfalls even though AC/DC is throbbing in his ears. The sound is like the distant rumblings of an impending thunderstorm.

Seated in his yellow corduroy recliner, in the dark and cosy corner of his office with his head bowed, his eyes are fixed on the pointed toes of her black leather stiletto heels as she marches up to stand in front of him.

The sound of her shouting his name mingles with the lyrics of _'Back in Black.'_

He rolls his head to look up, meeting with her severe expression. Her brow is furrowed, her lips pursed angrily, fury glowing in her eyes.

He shakes his head at her nonchalantly, mouthing the words: _"I can't hear you,"_ and his expression is comically and sarcastically dumb, though his heart rate quickens with fear of her reprisal.

With a sudden movement of her hand, she yanks the thin white cord from around his neck, causing the ipod earbuds to pop from his ears and fly out and down into his lap.  
"You cancelled my appointments?!" she shouts, lodging her hands on her hips.

"Huh?!" he inquires innocently.

"I've just been upstairs and spoken to Jane in reception. I asked her the time of my next appointment and she informed me I had none. I fact, I have none for the rest of the week."

He blinks at her.

"They're all dead," he offers his hypothesis with a shrug, "it only takes a simple like event like a favourite team losing the world series for those sort of people to pop themselves."

"Oh, ok, so all of my clients 'popped' themselves, that's your theory?!"  
He nods. "Haven't you heard? The Yankees lost."

"Greg, stop it," she snaps. "Jane told me you'd been up there to speak to her. She said you spun a very convincing story about me being sick and told her I had to take the next two weeks off?"

"You're the one who said you keep having to excuse yourself from clients to go and vomit!"

"And _you're_ the one who said the morning sickness was due to subside!" she contends.

He drops his head contritely and she sighs.

"Why'd you do it, Greg?" she asks.

"I don't want you under too much stress," he admits, "it's bad for the baby. It's bad for you. I want you to take some time off work."

"And you don't think that _this_ causes me stress?!" she raises her voice again, causing passers by to peer into his office.

"Hey, cool it," he says, making a grabbing motion for her hand "don't get so angry."

"Angry? Greg, I'm _furious!_ I don't know how I'm going to explain this to my clients."

"Then don't," he says, "take the time off. You need it."

"Yeah well I guess I'm going to have to now, aren't I?"

She levels an expression of disappointment at him before turning and pushing her way through his heavy glass door, shoulders slumped.

……….

She arrives home late, holding a paper bag in her hands. He presses the 'mute' button on the television remote and turns to face her.

"Still angry?" he asks.

She kicks her shoes off and sits beside him on the couch.

"You're adorable when you pout," she says, smiling as she kisses his cheek before adding: "No. You know I can't stay angry at you."

Overwhelmed with relief, he turns to catch her mouth with his.

He is not even sure why he does the stupid things he does.

"I told Jane about the baby," she says, "_and_ I told Cuddy. I'm taking the next two weeks off."

"Ah," he raises his eyebrows. "What did Cuddy say?"

"She was a little surprised, taken aback, but then she offered her congratulations. Expect to be hassled at work tomorrow."

He nods.

"Yeah. Let the onslaught begin."

"I got you a gift," she says.

"You did?"

He grins and she presents him with two Penthouse magazines from the paper bag. His eyes widen.

"You bought these?"

"Yup."

"You just walked into the shop, picked them off the shelf, and took them to the counter?" he asks in disbelief.

She nods.

"Well, it's not the most likely purchase for an expectant mother, but it works for me."

"I'm so horny, it's fantastic."

"I'll say."

"We're going to read them to each other," she says.

"We are?"

"Yeah, take your pants off," she says, hooking her fingers in his belt and leaning in to kiss his neck.

"Oh god," he says, "I never thought marriage and pregnancy could be so _hot_."

She pushes one of the glossy magazines into his hand, while her own hands works to open his belt and fly.

"Open to page 26," she says, "read the letter to the editor."

He flips through the pages of the magazine as instructed.

"_Dear Penthouse,"_ he reads, _"I always thought the wild stories I read in your magazine were made up, until one night it happened to me."_

He raises an eyebrow at her. "Are you serious?"

She grins at him as she lifts his hardening cock free from the confides of his boxers.

"Yes, keep reading."

"_I had been invited to a work function on short notice. I needed a new pair of shoes and I had been so busy that the only chance I had to go shopping was late on a Thursday night."_

He pauses his reading for a moment to fix his eyes on the activity of her hand, gently cupping and stroking his stiff cock.

"Ugh!" he grunts, "do we really need the magazine?"

She snatches the magazine from him, folding the pages back at the spine and holding it in one hand as she continues to work his cock with her other. She moves slowly, teasing and tracing her fingers over his shaft, allowing them to linger at the head where her thumb smears the droplets of his pre-cum. He moans and writhes beneath her as she reads.

"_I entered a small, out of the way store with 'sale' signs in the windows. There was only one sales assistant working – Alisha. She was a knock out, blonde and petite with curves in all the right places. She smiled at me and asked if I needed assistance. I told her I was looking for a pair of black leather dress shoes. Before I could tell her, she guessed my size. '12' she said, 'you're a big boy.'" _

Lee glances at him and giggles.

"You're a size 12," she says, before tightening her grip, making her strokes more precise.

She knows she is causing him a searingly intense pleasure because he bucks his hips to her, rising off the sofa and encouraging her with his exclamations of excitement.

"_She showed me a pair and asked me if I approved," _Lee continues to read_, "I did, and so she disappeared out back to find my size. Moments later, I heard her calling to me – her voice husky and smooth. I walked to the doorway of the storage room and I saw her, up on a ladder reaching for a box. Her skirt was hitched up and I could see the lace of her stockings and suspenders. I felt my cock throbbing in response and started to think about how nice it would be to slide into her tight, hot pussy."_

She tucks her fingers underneath his shaft now, and finds his balls – tensed and tightened. She massages them gently, and this different sensation causes his eyes to roll back in his head.

"Oh god," he whimpers.

She delights in this as much as he does. She exercises all of her 5 senses. She loves to hear his verbalisations, is engrossed in the sight of his magnificent cock. She dips her head to appreciate his musky scent, flicks her tongue over the tip and savours the taste of him. She allows her fingers to explore the textures – the ridges and rims, the veins, his width, his length, his wiry pubic curls.

"_She told me she was too short to reach the box and asked if I could reach it for her," _she continues to read,_ "I nodded and she climbed down from the ladder. As I approached, to my surprise, she reached behind me and closed the door to the storage room. Before I knew it, she flashed me a wicked grin and got down on her knees."_

She encircles her fingers, gripping his cock at its base. She continues to pump and stroke, building a steady and certain rhythm, gripping firmly, just the way he likes it.

On each upstroke, she slows her movements to make a circular press at the head, before stroking down.

"_She had my jeans unbuttoned and my hard cock sprung free. Without hesitation, she took me into her mouth, sucking gently and I groaned in pleasure."_

House watches, enamoured, his eyes widening with delight.

"Good?" she asks.

He gasps and nods quickly in response.

"I'm c…c…" he stutters, but before he is able to finish his statement, he bucks his hips and his cock spasms in her hands, spurting forth ribbons of white cum. The amount of ejaculate expelled decreases with each spurt, but he appears to experience the pleasure over and over in waves because he continues to groan in ecstasy. She watches as the fluid dribbles over her knuckles and onto the denim of his jeans.

"…_coming…"_ he pants, finally finishing his sentence.

She smiles, removing her hands and rubbing her fingertips together, enjoying the sticky texture of him. She raises her fingers to her lips, pressing them against her tongue, tasting him and sighing. It is not enough. She dips her head in his lap, takes hold of his cock once more and her tongue laps out to clean its leaking tip.

He shudders and pushes her back.

She sits up, licking her lips and grinning at him.

"My turn," she says, discarding the first magazine and reaching for the second.


End file.
